


The Lily of the Valley Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Lily of the Valley Affair

“Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon blinked, looked down at the intercom on his desk. The light flashed and Mr. Waverly’s voice crackled from the speaker again.

“Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon hit the button. “Solo here.” He realized he’d been staring blankly at the clock on the wall for the past  ...  10 minutes?

“Come to my office, Mr. Solo. We have a problem.”

_Illya_.

The thought came unbidden to attach itself to the end of Mr. Waverly’s terse statement.

Napoleon left his and Illya’s shared office to head for Mr. Waverly’s.

Must have been the unusually late night. He’d been in a strange kind of funk all morning, unable to concentrate. Woolgathering. About trees. A lake. Mountains.

No. Not woolgathering. Too much anxiety was attached to the images to call it woolgathering. He’d been worrying. _About trees?_

Of course the end-of-mission pile of paperwork wasn’t very engaging at the best of times, but Napoleon usually just grit his teeth and ploughed through it. Except when he could find a way to fob it off on his partner.

No such luck today. Illya wasn’t even in yet. That in itself was unusual — it was nearly noon — but not necessarily cause for worry.

_So who’s worried?_ Napoleon asked himself as the door to Mr. Waverly’s office slid open. “I am.”

“You are what, Mr. Solo?”

Mr. Waverly stood beside his great circular desk, scowling at his top agent. A grey haired, stern-faced army general sat at the table. Something in Mr. Waverly’s posture — the straight back, the hands empty of everything, even his everpresent pipe — would have alarmed Napoleon were he not already, for some reason, alarmed.

_I’m not alarmed,_ he lied to himself.

“I am — here, sir.” Apparently he’d spoken aloud. “What’s up?”

“Your Russian colleague seems to have decided to play truant today.”

The formless unease in Napoleon’s mind took a more definite shape and spread to other organs in the space of one indrawn breath. _Damn. I knew it._

“You don’t seem very surprised by this, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly’s tone was vaguely censuring. The general looked both scornful and suspicous. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

Napoleon felt his brows draw down. “No sir.” _No sir, I do not wish to tell my very pragmatic superior — particularly in front of an obviously hostile federal official — that I’m not surprised because I “had a feeling” something was wrong. No sir._

It could be a host of things. A hangover, a sudden cold, plumbing issues, traffic — but Napoleon’s gut was shouting at him that it was none of those things, damn it, that his partner was in trouble.

Mr. Waverly continued. “He was supposed to meet with Gen. Cooke and myself regarding the mind-control machine he uncovered in Bogota two months ago.”

Napoleon remembered the case; a fresh bullet wound had kept him from joining Illya in what had turned out to be a routine destruction of laboratory and mad scientist. A flying tackle by his partner was the reason the bullet had penetrated his shoulder rather than his head.

“Have you any idea why Mr. Kuryakin would fail to arrive here on time, Mr. Solo?” Mr. Waverly asked severely. Napoleon got the impression he was irked at showing any weakness in front of the American military, which tended toward a suspicious and unflattering view of international counterespionage organizations.

“No sir,” he said, trying to keep his tone brisk. “We were up a bit late last night, sir, but there was nothing that should have kept —” some tiny itch told him not to use Illya’s first name — “Mr. Kuryakin from meeting you today.” Another, stronger itch was prodding him toward the door, but he knew better than to do aught save wait for the command.

Mr. Waverly fiddled in his pocket, pulled out his pipe, and turned to Gen. Cooke. Napoleon shifted his balance, ready.

“I’m sorry for this inconvenience, general.”

“If your Russian agent has disappeared with that information,” the general said, his tone making ‘agent’ synonymous with ‘SOB’, or maybe ‘traitor,’ “it’s going to be a damn sight more than an inconvenience.”

Mr. Waverly stared the general down, then said mildly. “Yes. Mr. Solo—”

“Yes sir.”

“Go see what’s keeping Mr. Kuryakin, will you?”

“Yes sir.” Napoleon spun on his heel and was gone.

***

“How much about that device he blew up does this Russian agent know?”

Waverly turned slowly back to face the general.

“His report indicated that he had a grasp of the basic principles.”

Gen. Cooke snorted. “Which means what? He’d recognize another one if he saw it? He could turn one on and off? What?”

Mr. Waverly gave the man an arctic smile. “If you had read the dossier on Mr. Kuryakin which you so discourteously demanded access to, general, you would know that, given his scientific background and his tendency to understatement, it could well mean that he can construct such a device himself.”

It was, Mr. Waverly perceived, a mistake to reveal that to a man of Gen. Cooke’s suspicions, but he found the incredulity on the man’s face a fair reward. He also had complete faith in his agents, and knew that Kuryakin would not betray that faith, whatever the paranoic American military might fear.

“May I offer you some tea?” Mr. Waverly said then. “Or coffee?”

Gen. Cooke sat back in his chair. “I’d prefer something stronger if you’ve got it.”

Mr. Waverly smiled and reached for the intercom. “Of course.”

***

Napoleon, having tried in vain to raise Illya on his communicator during the short drive, arrived at Illya’s apartment at noon, nine hours after he’d last left it. What could have happened in a mere nine hours? In this business  ...  Napoleon shuddered to think.

He made a careful examination of Illya’s front door before touching it. There were no signs of boobytraps or forced entry, but when Napoleon tried the knob he found the door unlocked.

Illya always locked his door — with a vengeance. Napoleon clearly remembered the sounds of those various devices being employed last night — this morning — behind him as he’d departed, despite that both he and his partner had been slightly the worse for drink.

***

The conversation began, as they usually did, with an exchange of light-hearted digs regarding their different approaches to dealing with the opposite sex.

“You remind me of a man dropped into a cave filled with unimaginable treasures,” Napoleon said, “who climbs to the top of the highest pile of gold and gems, looks around, and says ‘somewhere under all this stuff there must be a way out.’“

Illya smiled in response.

“Whereas you see gold everywhere,” he began, waiting until his partner lifted his glass in salute to the presumed compliment.

“Even when it’s only iron pyrite,” he concluded, raising his own glass.

Napoleon grinned, unfazed. “I’ve never regretted any of my  ...  mining expeditions, though.”

Illya raised a brow. “Never?”

“Well,” Napoleon emended. “Almost never.”

“You so rarely end up with gems, though.”

“They’re all gems, my friend.” Napoleon said. “That’s what you need to realize. They’re _all_ gems. Some are just ... ”

“Semiprecious?” Illya suggested.

Napoleon shrugged. “And what is wrong with that? Now, you take Christine ... ”

Illya scowled. “The brunette in Records?”

“The very same. What do you think of her? Don’t tell me, let me guess — you haven’t.”

Illya closed his mouth.

“She’s bright, she’s pretty, she loves jazz—”

“Blues, actually,” Illya put in. Napoleon cocked his head, brows climbing.

“So you have noticed her. Thank God. There is yet some hope of your joining the human race.”

“Why is it that you feel compelled to try to make me into a pale copy of yourself as regards women?” The question was idle, not irate; the debate was too old to be anything but amusing.

Napoleon, gazing at the scotch in his glass — he would no more succumb to Illya’s penchant for vodka than Illya would depart from it — said mildly: “For your own good, tovarish. Life is immensely rich, and regrettably short.”

“Particularly our lives,” Illya agreed.

Napoleon tsked. “It’s that negative attitude of yours I’m working to rectify. You should try to loosen up, just a little, and enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

“Like Dora, in Filing?” Illya said.

“Well, she is a pleasure—”

“And definitely simple.”

“Now now ... ”

“I prefer life’s more complex pleasures,” the Russian said. “For instance, girls with at least two brain cells to rub together.”

“Christine is a Smith graduate in literature,” Napoleon said.

“Medieval literature, as a matter of fact,” Illya muttered. Napoleon leaned forward.

“Okay. Give.”

“Well, after all, one cannot go into Records without having some conversation with the staff.”

“I hope you didn’t address her as staff when you asked her out,” Napoleon said. “Which I hope you did.”

Illya smiled his tiny smile.

***

Standing back from Illya’s front door, Napoleon slid his UNCLE special from its holster and pushed the door all the way open. Nothing — except Illya’s gun lying like a dead mouse on the floor of the entry.

Napoleon picked it up carefully. The odds of there being any prints on it besides Illya’s were slim, but it was worth checking. It was clean and had not been fired since that cleaning.

The apartment was tidy as always. The kitchen was neat, dishes done, towels dry. In the living room on the coffee table sat the two empty glasses they’d abandoned that morning after a lengthy and increasingly absurd discussion of why women claimed they wanted a steady reliable man, dated spies for the excitement, then got hysterical at the sight of a gun or a little blood.

The Mahler record — a compromise between Napoleon’s traditional tastes and Illya’s outre preferences — was still on the turntable, which was off.

Napoleon went into the bedroom. The bed was rumpled, no signs of struggle. Illya’s communicator lay on the bedside table. The shower, sink and towels in the bathroom were all dry.

Napoleon pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel D.”

“Mr. Solo?” Mr. Waverly had clearly been awaiting his call. That revealed anxiety, which did not bode well.

“Illya’s not here, sir,” Napoleon said, pleased at how calm his voice was. “No sign of a struggle, but his front door was unlocked.”

“I see.” A pause, during which Napoleon could almost hear Mr. Waverly thinking. “I’ll send a forensics team over there immediately.”

“Yes sir. I’d like to stick around for a while. There might be something ... ”

“Of course.” Mr. Waverly’s interruption meant either that he knew what Napoleon had been about to say — that he might spot a clue the forensics team would miss — or, possibly, that Gen. Cooke was still there in the office and he didn’t want to reveal any more than necessary.

 

By the time the forensics team had arrived Napoleon had gone over his friend’s apartment with as keen an eye as he could bring focus to. He found no sign of foul play, nothing to indicate Illya had done anything other than go to bed, get up some time later, and stroll out the door into oblivion, wearing his pyjamas.

He stood in the entryway and watched the forensics team roll out their various arcane toys.

“Let me know if you find anything,” he said to Ed Grines, head of the team. Grines, who knew both Illya and Napoleon, simply nodded.

Napoleon returned to HQ in a knot of anxiety, determined to let the fingerprints team do their job and to use his own energies from another angle.

Who would kidnap Illya, right now, from his bed, without a struggle or a clue? Could Illya himself have let his kidnappers in? That would suggest it was someone he knew, and explain his gun on the floor by the door.

Napoleon returned to their office, sat at his desk, gingerly working his aching shoulder, and made a list:

1\. THRUSH enemies

2.NonTHRUSH enemies

3\. Personal enemies

4\. Proximate persons

He made a request of Recordsto dig out and collate the relevant material for the first two categories, asked that a list of the residents at Illya’s building be sent to him, and set his own mind to the most difficult category, number three. Difficult both because Illya was so reticent about his past and because there could well be some overlap with the other categories.

More than once as the day wore on Napoleon was grateful to the task — his urgent focus kept at bay the black fear lurking under his determination. Each time it poked through he hammered it back with the promise that whatever it took he’d find his partner.

His weird  ...  premonition  ...  that, he didn’t know what to think of.

It didn’t take a psychic to know danger lurked constantly in their lives. What Napoleon had been feeling had been different, not habitual wariness but a low-grade nagging feeling such as one has when the subconscious is trying to remind one of an important task. Even now if he relaxed he could feel it buzzing in the pit of his stomach and at the back of his brain: a constant anxiety attached to images of mountains, lakes and pine forests, and underscored with a sensation of Illya’s presence and imminent danger.

He could no more believe in it than he could erase it.

***

Mr. Waverly came to his office in the evening, not alone.

“Mr. Solo, this is Lieutenant White. We’ve been asked to permit Gen. Cooke’s aide as an observer, due to the sensitive nature of the data in Mr. Kuryakin’s head.”

Napoleon and Lt. White examined one another.

“The request of cooperation,” Mr. Waverly went on with heavy emphasis, “has come from the highest levels, Mr. Solo.”

“Yes sir,” Napoleon said, as if it was nothing to him to have a green army lieutenant under his feet while he tried to find his partner.

Mr. Waverly glanced at the taut expression on White’s smooth face and couldn’t resist.

“The lieutenant shares his CO’s opinion about the advisibility of using Russians as agents.” He paused. “Do try to refrain from killing him, will you?”

Surprise drew a brief smile from Napoleon as Lt. White stiffened.

“Yes sir.”

***

Later, White said, “What’s your theory as to what happened?”

Napoleon looked at him over the piles of paper on his desk. About 23, immaculate uniform and hair, the look of a man who had a good brain, a healthy body, a decent education and the erroneous belief that those things made him invincible. Experience would disabuse him of that, Napoleon thought, if he survived.

Napoleon pasted a tiny smile on his face. “Well, I don’t have one yet, lieutenant. Maybe you can help me out.”

“Gen. Cooke’s briefed me on the mind-control device your people discovered in Bogota. That’s a very valuable weapon.”

“Not when it’s in a million pieces, which I understand is the way Illya left it.”

“Gen. Cooke thinks Kuryakin might have the knowledge necessary to construct another one,” White said, expectant.

“I had no idea the general knew Mr. Kuryakin so well.” Napoleon picked up the top folder on his desk — the file on Dr. Xavier — underneath which was the file on Illya’s neighbors. Xavier had been a former Nazi who’d pursued brainwashing techniques under several brilliant German scientists; he’d fled just before the fall of Berlin and had lived quietly in South America until it was discovered he had used his machine on a high-level Colombian official. That had led to UNCLE’s timely intereference.

Dr. Xavier was dead; that made him a somewhat less likely suspect. His chief cohort, a young woman, allegedly Greek, calling herself Athene, had disappeared; his men were either dead or captured.

Napoleon set that file aside and opened the second.

“All Soviets are loyal to the Motherland,” White said, cold venom in his tone.

Napoleon glanced up. White wasn’t alone in that perspective. It was held by many Americans, particularly those in military intelligence, where a little paranoia was considered wisdom.

He knew that there were a few people even in UNCLE who agreed with White, although it was a view he rarely heard voiced. No wonder, considering how hard he’d come down on the last UNCLE staffer he’d overheard speculating about Illya’s loyalties.

Hell, Napoleon had to admit, if only to himself, there was a time when he’d questioned Illya’s loyalties — or at least been unsure of them. What American wouldn’t when confronted with a former Soviet citizen, recently defected under highly mysterious circumstances? It felt strange, shameful, to remember that now. Perhaps he didn’t know every single thing about Illya’s past. He’d long ago learned all he needed to. How much more did you have to know about a man than that he would willingly die for you?

“You have a very impressive service record,” White went on, “both in the military and with this organization. Yet you work with a Russian partner.”

“It was easier than working against him,” Napoleon muttered.

“What are your feelings about the Russians, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon opened the file and began skimming each precis. “They make terrific vodka.”

***

Nightfall saw a mountain of paperwork, a jackhammer of a headache and not a crumb of what could even optimistically be called a lead.

“Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon looked up from the paper he’d been blankly staring at, seeing the outline of a pine tree, and blinked at his superior, standing in the doorway.

“Anything?” Mr. Waverly asked.

“No sir.” Napoleon sat back with a sigh. “Forensics didn’t find any sign of struggle, and Illya’s gun hadn’t been fired. Only his prints and mine were found on the gun and on the inside handle of his front door. No prints at all on the outside, which simply tells us someone was careful enough to wipe it, otherwise mine would be there. The usual suspects are all busy in other parts of the world. Some of the less usual suspects’ whereabouts are unknown, and are being checked on.” He rubbed his eyes, looked up at his superior. “We have a lot of enemies, sir.”

Mr. Waverly thought that, at that moment, his CEA looked simultaneously very young and very old.

Napoleon indicated the file before him. “Illya’s neighbors. We’ve already begun interviews. So far no one saw or heard anything. Everyone in the building has lived there at least six months, which, although not unheard of, is a very long time to set up a trap.”

“Yes,” Mr. Waverly said, his tone faraway as he pondered. “It does make defection a plausible argument, doesn’t it?”

Napoleon raised his aching head to meet his superior’s gaze. Mr. Waverly waved his hand.

“Spare me your outrage, Mr. Solo. I said plausible, not possible.”

Napoleon lowered his eyes. “Sorry sir. I’m tired. And worried. And angry.” 

“Where is the lieutenant?” Mr. Waverly looked around the room. “There aren’t many places in here to hide a body.”

“He went to get something to eat.”

“There is a chance this is connected to the lab Mr. Kuryakin destroyed in Bogota,” Mr. Waverly went on. Napoleon pulled that file out from under the list of Illya’s fellow tenants.

“Dr. Xavier is reported to have been killed in the blast. The woman called Athene managed to get away before Illya’s team moved in. The others were killed or captured.”

“Yes. But it’s possible he had other associates, others who knew of the process, the only remaining details of which reside in Mr. Kuryakin’s rather exceptionally hard head.”

Napoleon thought that that, at least, meant a fair likelihood that head was still connected to its shoulders.

Mr. Waverly sighed. “I’m afraid the army is of the opinion Mr. Kuryakin has absconded with the data. We may have some difficulty keeping them from hunting him themselves.”

“Well, they don’t have any more clues than we do,” Napoleon said. “And if they’re proceeding from the assumption that Illya’s  ...  gone over the wall, they’re never going to find him.”

“Let us be grateful for that,” Mr. Waverly said. “They don’t have to cooperate with us, but it behooves us to cooperate with them.” Watching his top agent rub his temples, Mr. Waverly said:

“Go home, Mr. Solo. Get some sleep. Tired brains make mistakes.”

Napoleon started to protest that there was no time, but he knew what his superior would say: And if you miss something crucial, how much time will that waste? He rose, working his aching shoulder, and followed Mr. Waverly out. It was 2:13 a.m.

***

Napoleon left UNCLE HQ meaning to go home and snatch a few hours’ sleep, maybe take a painkiller for his shoulder. Instead he found himself returning to Illya’s place.

He let himself into the darkened apartment, fully intending to have another look around. Ed Grines, true to both his professionalism and his friendship with Napoleon and Illya, had left the place as tidy as he’d found it, in contrast to most forensics teams in Napoleon’s experience. They tended to forget they were investigating someone’s home.

Instead of looking around, however, he went to the window, not turning on the lights, and opened the drapes to allow in the faint glow from the city.

It was the first real pause he’d taken all day. He felt shaky, almost drunk with weariness and concern. Aches and exhaustion faded into the background; anger came forward. Anger and fear — anger at Gen. Cooke and his prejudices, anger at whoever had taken his partner, anger at himself for not having been there to prevent it  ...

And fear. He’d long past learned to handle fear for himself; had in fact found it easy. This fear, all too reasonable, too rational to dismiss, was for Illya. Many things could be happening to his partner, all of them ugly, all painful, many fatal. Every minute that passed might be his last, and there wasn’t one damn thing more Napoleon could do than he was doing. Nothing. His will clamped down on the bubbling fury that that helplessness stirred up. It would do Illya no good for him to rage and rant. He needed to think.

His partner’s presence suffused the room, as if, turning around, Napoleon would find him standing there. To that presence Napoleon vowed, “I will find you.”

***

Napoleon woke to the shrill beep of his communicator. He sat up, cramped and bleary-eyed, and dug the pen out of his pocket, blinking against the morning sun blaring through the windows.

“Solo.”

“Mr. Solo.” It was Mr. Waverly. “Where are you? We phoned your apartment. I was concerned something had happened to you too.”

Napoleon rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, sir. I’m at Illya’s. I thought I’d have another look around. I must’ve fallen asleep.” What the hell had he dreamed? His mind was full of pine trees and lushly grassy meadows. A lake. Vermont again. And his partner, calling to him. Asking for help. Saying his name.

“Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon shook his head, hard, learning the headache wasn’t gone yet. “Yes sir. I’m on my way in.” He signed off and looked around the apartment again.

_With all I’ve got to worry about,_ he thought as he left, _I’m dreaming about some damn’ meadow in Vermont._

But the image, and the anxiety, stayed with him the rest of the day.

***

Napoleon jolted awake, sitting up in bed, heart slamming against his ribs. Cries of pain — his own, yet not his own — faded into silence inside his head, and he realized he’d awakened himself by calling his partner’s name aloud.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and stared around his dark bedroom, waiting for his heart and lungs to calm. He felt ill, clammy. He raised a shaky hand to his face and it came away wet with sweat.

What the hell had he dreamed? He was being beaten. Held and beaten, methodically, almost dispassionately, although no one who hurt people for a living did it without some measure of enjoyment.

He remembered darkness. Grass. A brick house. And that all too familiar choking state of stifled panic — the feeling of being trapped.

Napoleon leaned forward, resting his forehead on his palms. Now that his body had calmed down, his head was pounding.

He flung the covers off and got up, going to the window.

This hadn’t — still didn’t — feel like a dream. It wasn’t over. The knot tightened in his gut, the killing pain of knowing Illya was calling to him for help, and he was unable to.

Cursing, Napoleon looked at the clock. It was a few minutes shy of one; it was now the fifth day since his partner had been taken, and he was no closer than before to knowing where or why.

Napoleon showered, dressed and returned to UNCLE HQ.

***

One faint hope after another had dried up before Napoleon’s increasingly bloodshot eyes. And Lt. White’s entirely proper questions had begun to make his trigger finger itch.

“It’s a n-natural suspicion if a Soviet citizen in possession of potential military information disappears,” White said, his military school aplomb rattled by Napoleon’s cold anger. He was pacing the room.

“Your people have been watching every Soviet ship for five days,” Napoleon said icily. “What success have you had?”

“No less than UNCLE,” Lt. White said. Napoleon bit his tongue. That truth hurt. Another truth was that if he were himself, he wouldn’t be wasting his breath bickering with some college pudding who thought every Russian was a Soviet spy. His nerves were frayed; he wondered what Mr. Waverly would do when he finally gave this officious army snot the belt in the chops he so obviously needed.

Napoleon turned his attention back to the frustrating pile of recent intelligence reports. Lt. White started to seat himself behind Illya’s desk.

“Hey,” Napoleon said. White looked up.

“Not there.” Even as he said it, hearing the frigid edge of fury in his voice, some tiny rational part of his brain stated: _You’ve lost your mind._

The look on White’s face clearly indicated he too was of that opinion, but he also realized Napoleon was in no state to be brooked. He straightened, stepped away from Illya’s desk and returned to the visitor’s chair in front of Napoleon’s desk.

“This situation seems to have disturbed you,” Lt. White said.

Napoleon glanced at him. “Have you never had a friend, lieutenant?”

“I’ve read your dossier,” Lt. White continued. “And Kuryakin’s.”

Napoleon heard the suspicion in the man’s voice. He’d been waiting for this angle to surface. He knew that Mr. Waverly would no more let this man read their true files than he would dress up as the Easter Bunny, but it was best to let the army men think they knew all there was to know.

“I’ve also spoken to a number of your colleagues.”

“I’m sure you found it edifying,” Napoleon said. The words on the sheet in front of him blurred, became a rough sketch of a mountain lake surrounded by trees.

Napoleon slapped the folder shut and rubbed his eyes roughly. _Wake up._

“Yes. You and Kuryakin have an exemplary record and an enviable  ... . one might even say legendary reputation.”

Napoleon massaged his temples, not looking up. “I see they gave you the bowdlerized version.” _Vermont. Illya was in Vermont_. The whispery voice would not be silenced.

_I refuse to be psychic!_ Napoleon snapped at himself.

“However, there is some concern that your greatest loyalty might be to each other, not to UNCLE.”

“Whether or not that’s so, the two loyalties have never come into conflict,” Napoleon said coolly. That was not strictly true, but never had that conflict caused irreparable harm, either to the partners or to their missions.

“If your partner — your friend — has sold his loyalties back to the KGB, I would call that  a conflict.”

Napoleon glared wearily at the lieutenant. “The situation you suggest is not possible.” Seething, he opened the folder again, appalled to realize his hands were shaking. He knew the shaking would stop the second he wrapped them around White’s throat, but that was no comfort right now.

It wasn’t the first time the U.S. military had questioned Illya’s loyalties. Illya usually shrugged it off. Perhaps his cool acceptance of it was the reason it always made Napoleon so angry. Just now, listening to this fool’s scornful accusations and cocksure insults, at a time when Illya might be hurt or even —

_No. Not dead. He’s in Vermont._

Napoleon shook his head sharply. _Stop it._

“Your loyalty to your Russian friend blinds you to a likely scenario,” White said.

“And makes your loyalties suspect as well.”

Both men turned to see Gen. Cooke standing at the open door, Mr. Waverly behind him.

“I’ve come to see what progress you’ve made,” Cooke went on, exchanging salutes with Lt. White. “I have to say, Waverly, your man’s attitude concerns me.”

Mr. Waverly said calmly, “I might say the same to you, general. And your man, I regret to point out, has yet to establish the lengthy and enviable record of service to the forces of freedom that _both_ of my men can boast.”

Gen. Cooke harrumphed. “Point taken.”

Lt. White flushed. Napoleon shot Mr. Waverly a brief look of gratitude.

“Any progress in locating Kuryakin?” Cooke barked.

“None, sir, “ White replied. “We’ve broadened the watch to airports in Europe and South America.”

Gen. Cooke turned to Mr. Waverly. “It’s been a week without a word or a lead. We have to assume Kuryakin’s disappearance isn’t coincidence.”

“We have,” Napoleon said coldly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s treason.”

Gen. Cooke glanced at him. “We, Mr. Solo, cannot afford to discount that possibility. It’s known that Dr. Xavier planned to use his machine to infiltrate the U.S. government, planting brainwashed agents at the highest levels. If Kuryakin has gone over, the Soviets might even now be planning the same gambit.”

“Illya hasn’t ‘gone over,’ “ Napoleon said, rising from his seat.

“Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly warned him mildly. “Arguing the possibilities — or impossibilities — will get us nowhere.”

Napoleon sat down, smoldering, knowing he was too on edge to be opening his mouth around these military men — and realizing that it might be best if they chose to believe Illya had betrayed UNCLE and the U.S. Since that could not be true, their assumptions could only lead them away from his partner.

Unfortunately Gen. Cooke wasn’t stupid. His assignment of Lt. White to be Napoleon’s shadow showed his understanding of the possibility that UNCLE might find Illya first. That made Napoleon determined to shake off Lt. White and any other of Gen. Cooke’s flunkies before he  ...

Napoleon stopped. Before he  ...  what? Drove off to Vermont like a lunatic, following the compulsion of a damn’ dream?

He’d been shouting that tiny insistent voice down for days, watching hopelessly as one rational plan after another evaporated in his hands, leaving only that little voice that told him — that showed him, when he slept — that his partner was in Vermont. _In the mountains. By a lake._

Napoleon put no stock in psychic phenomena as popularly understood, but he lived daily with the practical proof of the bond he and his partner shared, and there was no objective explanation for that, either. He’d long accepted that they could read each other’s minds, and sense peril to each other, without labelling it supernatural. But this went beyond their very practical symbiosis. This was the stuff of crystal balls and magic.

***

Napoleon shot to his feet from an anguished half-sleep, gun clenched in a shaking hand, Illya’s shriek of agony echoing in his head and his churning gut. Papers scattered from his desk and his chair hit the wall.

He wobbled, clutched at his desk, and dragged a ragged gasp of air into his lungs.

“Jesus.” He straightened up, drawing his hand across his damp face, and looked at his gun vibrating in his aching hand. He holstered it, surprised he hadn’t shot a hole in the wall of his office.

“Illya ... ” His stomach was knotted with burning frustration — as if his partner were being subjected to hot irons within arm’s length of him, and he could not reach out and help. Even as he stood there, wide awake, sick with anxiety, he was pierced by the certainty that these recurrent visitations were, not dreams, but Illya’s cries for help.

“Vermont.” Napoleon took a deep, steadying breath and straightened his tie, combing a hand through his hair. He glanced at himself in a mirror to try to reassure himself he didn’t look as insane as he had to be. Then, sans reassurances, he strode into Mr. Waverly’s office.

“Ah, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly glanced up at him, then did a concerned doubletake that did nothing to ease Napoleon’s apprehensions.

“Are you  ... . quite all right, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon drew in another slow breath. “Yes sir.” _Yes sir, for a lunatic I’m perfectly fine, sir._

“Good. I have an assignment for you.”

Napoleon, mouth open to vent his mad request, clamped it shut. _Have we_ both _lost our minds?_

“An  ...  assignment?”

“Yes. Moustapha has resurfaced. You’ll reassign the search for Mr. Kuryakin to other operatives and take Mr. Slate with you.”

Napoleon opened and closed his mouth twice before any words formed. “Mr. Waverly, I —”

“Yes, yes, I quite realize your concerns, but after a week with no progress whatever, I must regretfully return you to more active and urgent concerns. Your experience with Moustapha is required.”

Napoleon forced himself to think, to speak clearly.

“Sir, I believe I have a  ...  a lead on Mr. Kuryakin’s whereabouts.”

Mr. Waverly’s grey brows shot skyward. “You have?”

“Yes sir.” Praying his superior wouldn’t ask for details, he said, “I’d like your permission to follow it up.”

“To?”

Napoleon kept his poker face on, full power. “Vermont, sir.”

“Vermont?”

“Yes sir.”

“You said you had a lead — what sort of lead? Have you shared it with our military  ...  associates?”

“Um  ...  no sir. It’s  ...  rather a long shot.”

But Mr. Waverly was nobody’s fool. “Apparently so long a shot you’re disinclined to tell even me about it.” He waited, keen eyes fixed on his top enforcement agent.

“Sir ... ” Napoleon ground his teeth together.

“Come, man, no hemming and hawing. If you’ve a lead on Mr. Kuryakin’s whereabouts, out with it. I may still send other agents to investigate it. I need you on this Madagascar case.”

Madagascar! “Sir, I’m the only one who can follow this lead  ... ”

“Mr. Solo, I’m well aware of your  ...  personal interest in the situation, but you are not the only competent operative in UNCLE’s employ. Surely there are colleagues you would trust with this.”

“Not with Gen. Cooke’s guard dogs following them,” Napoleon said, on the spur of the moment. “I wouldn’t put it past Lt. White to put a bullet into Illya as soon as he saw him.” _Besides, no one else can use my dreams as a guide._ He winced inwardly _. You are out of your mind._

“Don’t be melodramatic. Gen. Cooke wants Mr. Kuryakin back alive as much as we do—”

“I doubt that. Sir.”

“—if for different reasons. Speaking of the devil, the general and White will be here any moment, so whatever this long shot is that you are attempting so clumsily to avoid delineating, you’d better tell me.”

Burning, Napoleon told him, watching, despairing, as Mr. Waverly’s eyes got bigger, then smaller.

Silence. _Silence_.

Mr. Waverly’s tone was arid. “If I didn’t know of your genuine concern for Mr. Kuryakin, I would suspect you of making a very poor and extraordinarily ill-timed joke.”

Stiff, Napoleon said, “It’s no joke, sir. I know how it sounds. I also know that nothing else has given us the faintest lead as to Illya’s abductors or whereabouts. I don’t pretend to understand it, sir. I don’t even pretend to believe in it. All I know is this  ...  whatever it is is giving me no peace. I have to go. If I don’t —” He clamped his jaw shut on the words ‘I’ll go insane’ but saw that Mr. Waverly heard them anyway.

“Mr. Solo  ...  obviously the strain of these past few days has taken a toll on you—”

“It has, sir. Part of that toll has been trying to ignore, to dismiss  ...  whatever this thing is.” Napoleon waved one hand. “But whatever it is, maybe some psychic connection, maybe only me losing my mind, I need to follow up on it.”

Mr. Waverly considered, scowling. “I need you in Madagascar. Moustapha is a very real and immediate threat, something you can put your hands on. Which is precisely what I want you to do. I’ll have our Vermont office do some checking for the sake of your peace of mind.”

“Sir—”

“I’ve made my decision, Mr. Solo. We aren’t abandoning the search for Mr. Kuryakin, but I need you where you’ll be of most use.” The intercom beeped and Mr. Waverly flipped the switch. “Yes?”

“Gen. Cooke and Lt. White have arrived, sir.”

“Send them up.”

Napoleon stood there, trying to think clearly. Maybe he was already thinking clearly, but he doubted that. His more usual disobedience to explicit orders generally came in the field, not right in front of his superior. But he could no more leave that office and head for Madagascar than he could fly. He couldn’t sit still for one more minute — but there was only one road for him, and Madagascar was not at the end of it.

“Now, Mr. Solo, I  ...  Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon drew his UNCLE Special and laid it on the table. Under Mr. Waverly’s increasingly disbelieving gaze he removed his communicator and his ID card, setting them beside the gun. He’d need his badge to get out of the building.

“Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said heavily. “This is hardly  ... ”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Napoleon said. One part of his mind was yelling at him in panic. Another was saying _Get this over with; you have a job to do_.

“You leave me no choice. Either I’m the only hope Illya has of being found, or I’m insane. Either way I know what I have to do, and I’m of no use to this organization until I do it.”

He turned and headed for the door. It slid open to reveal Gen. Cooke and Lt. White. Napoleon strode between them and kept going.

“Mr. Solo!”

Napoleon quickly analyzed the tone of Mr. Waverly’s voice. He stopped. Turned. Gen. Cooke and Lt. White still stood in the doorway, looking back at him in puzzlement. Mr. Waverly stood by the table, within reach of Napoleon’s gun and other UNCLE accoutrements.

“You won’t need to leave these here, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said, picking up gun, pen and card. “Even an agent on leave is still an agent.”

_On leave?_ Napoleon thought.

“On leave?” Lt. White echoed. “You’re putting him on leave?”

“Stress leave,” Mr. Waverly said smoothly. “The current situation has been too great a strain for Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon clamped his jaw shut against the automatic denial.

“I think a few days’ rest will do him a world of good.” Mr. Waverly held out Napoleon’s things. “Perhaps somewhere out of the city.”

Napoleon let his immense relief and gratitude show in his eyes and smile as he came back into the office to recollect his career.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. You do that.”

“You can’t just—”  The closing door cut off Gen. Cooke’s protest.

Knowing Lt. White was likely to be sent to follow him, Napoleon dashed for the elevator, eager to get as much headstart as possible. After days of miserable failure, inactivity and self-doubt, it was exhilarating to be moving, to be _doing_ , and — most of all — to finally be silencing that constant shouting in his head.

Not stopping even to pack a bag, Napoleon took his car and drove out of the city northward. He knew he ought to feel bad about having surrendered to insanity. Instead, he found himself baring his teeth in a fierce smile.

“Hang on, Illya,” he said. “I’m coming.”

***

He stood, arms crossed, looking out the window, when Lily entered. The guard shut the door behind her. She set the tray down on the table and said:

“You’re awake.”

“A searingly acute observation. “ He spoke without turning.

Lily smiled to herself. She could hardly fault his sarcasm. Or his attitude, since he was an unwilling guest. He still wore the pyjamas he’d been in when he’d been carried in three days before. She made a mental note to get him some clothes, then said:

“I don’t miss a thing.”

She set about transferring his breakfast from tray to table. The room and its adjacent bathroom were luxuriously appointed and very secure. A comfortable prison, at least for the moment.

He turned to look at her, startlingly blue eyes cool, face impassive.

“Breakfast,” she proclaimed, indicating the table.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s all perfectly safe,” she said. “I fixed it myself. No poisons, no sleeping drugs. Just food.”

He glanced at the food, then back at her. “How long was I unconscious?”

She gazed at the ceiling. “About 72 hours. I don’t know exactly because I don’t know when you woke up today.”

He came over to the table, looked without interest at the food. “It looks good,” he said. “And it smells good.”

Lily shrugged. “Shall I serve as your boeuffetier?”

He looked at her. “Who are you? Why am I here? Where is here and what do you want?”

She picked up the tray and glanced at the door.

“I’m Dr. Xavier’s niece. You’re here because he had you brought here. Here is Vermont. I’m not familiar with the area so I can’t narrow it down any more than that. I don’t know what my uncle wants. As to what I want: Eat your breakfast before it gets cold while I go find you some clothes to wear.” She looked at his feet. “And shoes. What size shoe do you wear, Mr.  ... ?”

“Dante. Edmond Dante. Size eight.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”  She picked up a spoon from the tray and handed it to him, then went to the door, nodding at it. “If you’re going to start tunnelling I’d advise you to do it quietly.”

 

When she returned he had eaten the breakfast and she could hear the shower running. She left clothes and shoes on the bed and collected the dishes.

He came out of the bathroom along with a rush of steamy air, toweling his hair dry.

“Hello again,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn. “Your clothes are on the bed there.” She nodded at it, becoming deeply absorbed in adjusting the cutlery on the tray.

He lowered the towel. “The service here is excellent, but I have to check out today.”

Her smile vanished. “I don’t think you can.”

“What is your name?”

“Lily.”

“Lily,” he said. “Your uncle probably intends to kill me.”

She met his gaze, but her thoughts were on the guard on the other side of the door. And the monitoring microphones throughout the room.

“Your UNCLE intended to kill him,” she said, keeping her voice neutral as she fiddled with the fork and spoon.

“We meant to stop him,” he said. “The machine he invented was dangerous.”

“You blew him up,” she said, still fingering utensils. “I don’t blame him for being angry.” She straightened up, not yet lifting the tray from the table. “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.” _Look at the tray_ , she thought fiercely.

“Last meal?” he asked wryly. “Yes, it was very good. You—”

“If there’s anything you didn’t like,” she cut in, gesturing at the tray, “tell me. I’ve been instructed to make you comfortable.”

Preoccupied, he only glanced down. “It was fine.”

Sighing, she picked up the tray. “I’ll bring you lunch at one. There are books—” She nodded toward the tall bookcase across from the bed. “You’ll have to entertain yourself.”

“When does your uncle plan to start  ...  entertaining me?”

She went to the door and knocked, sliding her hand across the tray and disarranging the debris. She glanced back as the door opened. He was at the window again.

“Come on,” the guard snapped. She left.

 

After the girl had gone Illya sat in the windowseat.

It had taken an unnervingly long time for his mind to become clear — or at least what he thought was clear — after he’d regained consciousness. He still had a headache and some blurriness of both vision and memory.

He vaguely remembered a knock at the door of his apartment. Around dawn — he recalled that there had been some light as he’d padded barefoot to the door.

A girl. Not the girl here, Lily, but someone he’d seen before?

Alice. Of course. Alice, Mrs. Blankenship’s granddaughter. A pretty, counterculture sort of girl with long blond hair. Illya had run into her a few times in the elevator or the hallway. Once, by the mailboxes, they’d argued amicably for a quarter-hour about Stravinsky.

It was Alice who’d come to his door in the wee hours, barefoot, flowered dress, blonde hair long and loose, her expression worried.

He should have been more careful. He didn’t remember seeing anyone else, nor did he have any idea who’d hit him or what with.

He remembered Dr. Xavier, though, with a chilling clarity. Wondering whether the doctor wanted simple revenge or the more complicated kind wasn’t a very cheering distraction. The former was unlikely since he was still alive. The latter — being used as a guinea pig for the doctor’s brain-washing device — might make him prefer death.

Illya had seen the machine at work, and had some idea how it functioned, a variation of aversion therapy. It first broke down the victim’s ego and defenses, then rebuilt them, centered around Dr. Xavier’s personality and desires. Not as fast as simply killing someone, but ultimately an effective retraining tool, much faster than the old techniques, which took weeks or even months.

Dr. Xavier was clearly better financed here than he had been in Bogota; that suggested the good doctor had found himself a patron. Guards passed into and out of view on the lawn below with depressing frequency, in states of annoying alertness, and to no discernable pattern. They had a THRUSH look about them.

Lily. Dr. Xavier’s niece resembled him, black-haired, black-eyed. They were a handsome family. She might be a weak link in the fence Dr. Xavier had built around him.

Inevitably, then, Illya thought of Napoleon. And rescue — the two were synonymous.

The thought of the hangover Napoleon would have awakened with made Illya smile, even in his present situation — mostly because Napoleon had several times gotten the better of him in their debate. He should know better than to discuss women with his partner, drunk or sober.

It would doubtless be a few hours before he would be sufficiently missed for the machinery to begin, but that still meant Napoleon had had 48 hours to begin a search — if Lily was being truthful in telling him how long he’d been out. His physical state had backed her up, though.

He could picture the forensics team going over his apartment, Napoleon standing over them, driving them with orders like whiplashes. Then he pictured his partner wading through mounds of files, trying to determine which of their myriad enemies was responsible. Illya had to wonder if anything in those files — even in the Bogota file — would point his partner in the direction of a secluded Vermont house.

He made a thorough search of the rooms, locating but not disabling all the hidden microphones. He didn’t need to plot out loud, after all, and if he destroyed these they might use some more obtrusive methods to monitor him.

The window in the bedroom was securely sealed — cemented, as far as he could tell. No convenient ventilation ducts, no ceiling or floor panels to let him into crawlspaces, no matches or anything to make explosives or incendiaries with. The guard he’d glimpsed outside was large and armed. He could’ve picked the old-fashioned lock on the door if he’d had the tools. He didn’t.

The bathroom window wasn’t sealed shut, apparently because it was too small to escape through. Or was it? Illya filed that prospect away for consideration when it was dark, or when his mind was a little clearer. He felt just enough off-balance mentally and physically that he hesitated to trust himself with any extreme activities until necessary.

From the window he could see that the house was on a rise, overlooking a broad lawn that ended at the edge of the woods. In the distance he glimpsed a lake, then more forested hills rising to distant mountains. The house seemed old and large, as far as he could tell, clearly isolated. The neatly trimmed lawn was an island of civilization in a sea of pines, carpeting the slopes that descended in gentle ridges to the lake below. No structures broke the thick blanket of wilderness save for one other house, facing this one across the lake. Even if he got out of the house (when, not if, he told himself) he’d have a long stretch of nature to fnd his way through. He could as easily die from exposure, starvation or an animal attack as from anything Dr. Xavier might do to him.

At the back of his more urgent concerns he located some annoyance that he hadn’t managed to put a stop to Dr. Xavier’s machinations. That was a matter of professional pride. He smiled at that irrelevant thought and lay down on the bed to take a nap.

***

At midnight he went into the bathroom, opened the window, and considered.

Carefully relaxed, he slowly worked his arms and shoulders through the opening. That was the hardest part. There were techniques — he used them. Finally, after much wriggling and scraping and wedged-in pauses to reconsider, he found the right angle and process and he was free, from the ribcage up.

He paused there, breathing deeply of rain-scented air, to scan the ivy-decorated brick walls and the manicured lawn below. A guard passed. Illya watched, leaning heavily on whatever god it was who saw to it that people didn’t look up.

After the guard was out of sight he searched for, and found, what he’d hoped for in a house this old — external pipes. One ran about two feet to the left of the window.

Hands flat against the clammy, clay-smelling brick wall, he heaved himself farther out, bracing his thighs against the window frame as he reached for the pipe. It shifted a little when his left hand wrapped around it, but the brackets held.

He twisted to get his right hand onto it and scraped the rest of the way out the window, clinging, elbows and knees grating against the bricks. One deep breath and another survey of the yard below, then he climbed down, dropping into a crouch in the shrubbery to breathe deeply of the chill clean air and consider his options. The second took longer.

Sticking to the road would be dangerous. Plunging into the woods, without food, water, map or coat, could be fatal. Illya decided to make for the lake. At least at the house he’d seen across the lake there might be food or a telephone. He’d try to travel out of sight, but keeping the road in view as much as possible. Some element of ego rendered him loath to have “eaten by bear” in his dossier under “manner of death.”

The nearby crunch of boots on gravel made him shrink. Two men walked past.

“—commune, at the lake, naked as damn’ jay birds.”

The other man laughed. “Hippies. Kids today don’t know  ... ”

The voices faded. He watched the guards until he felt he had a good idea of their patterns, and the route he could take across the yard to avoid them.

Illya darted out from the bushes, making for the line of tidily trimmed shrubs that marched alongside the drive. He scurried along behind those for a while, stopping in the shadows of an oak to catch his breath and reconnoitre.

_I shouldn’t even be out of breath_. But a drug that knocked a man out for three days was bound to have some nasty lingering side effects. He touched his face; his fingers came away wet despite the coolness of the night air. Kneeling in shadow, blood hammering against his temples, he watched a guard pass in front of the house. He used the time to get a good look at his prison. A big old brick colonial, two storeys, columns and all. No lights shone in any of the windows. Though the guards carried hunting rifles rather than THRUSH issue, Illya had little doubt as to whence the funds for all this had come.

He sucked a deep breath into his lungs and lunged to his feet toward the woods.

“Hey!”

The shout sparked an adrenaline explosion in his gut; he ran harder, taking a zigzag course. No bullets followed, only heavy footfalls, thudding closer.

_Why aren’t they shooting?_ The question — or rather, its likely answer — made him run faster.

He plunged into the pitch-dark under the eaves of the forest, the guards at his back.

“Got him!” one shouted, prematurely. Illya ducked, and the toe of his shoe caught on a vine or root, yanking his feet out from under him. He sprawled onto a damp moldy bed of ivy and old leaves.

Hands seized his arms and jerked him to his feet.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” someone rasped, out of breath, and Illya was hauled back onto the lawn.

Lights came on in the lower level of the house. Three men came to meet Illya’s captors, who flung him onto the grass on his knees. He started to get up and a booted toe caught him in the side, lifting him off the grass for a brief, painful instant.

The sound that escaped him led the other guard to hammer his rifle butt between Illya’s shoulders and snap: “Quiet!”

Illya lay flat for a moment while his side and back shouted with pain. He breathed deeply, the grass scent tickling his nose, trying to ease muscles contracted into tight defensive knots.

“Get him up.”

That voice reknotted everything.

He was lifted to his feet by his flankers and held there. The light from the house haloed the familiar shape of a man who certainly hadn’t earned it.

“Mr. Kuryakin.” Dr. Xavier’s voice was thick with satisfaction. “So glad to see you again. I do apologize for not having welcomed you to my home earlier, but I’ve been very busy preparing my new project. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say new. Let us instead say the new and improved version of the project you so infuriatingly interfered with in Bogota two months ago.” Anger seeped through Dr. Xavier’s cool tones. He seemed to realize it, and paused. “Well, a setback, or so it appeared at the time. Now I’m inclined to look upon it as an unexpected but fortunate change in direction.”

“What is your direction now?” Illya asked with but scant hope Dr. Xavier would tell him.

“Well, perhaps I misspoke. My new financers have simply persuaded me to a larger view than I had previously entertained.”

“Today the United States?” Illya said. “Tomorrow the world?”

He saw Dr. Xavier nod. One of the guards stepped forward. Illya tensed just before the big man slugged him in the stomach. Illya let the men holding him absorb some of the impact, gritting his teeth against the pain. The guard was obviously a professional. The blow hurt but did no damage. His supporters shook him a little, pulling him straight, and the third guard cracked an openhanded blow across his face. Illya let his head roll with it. When he looked back, blinking, at Dr. Xavier, the scientist said:

“I do want you alive, Mr. Kuryakin, but believe me, the worse your physical condition when I return you to UNCLE, the better. No one will suspect you are a traitor in their midst if you show all the signs of having been tortured.”

Illya said nothing, but Dr. Xavier either saw or imagined some slight reaction.

“Oh yes. I intend to use my brain-washing device upon you. Both sweet revenge and a step in the direction of my ultimate goal.”

Illya worked his jaw. “Which is?”

“Irrelevant to you,” Dr. Xavier said. He turned to the guard who’d hit Illya. “You know your job. Hurt him, but don’t kill him.”

The man nodded, turning to face his objective. In the darkness Illya couldn’t see his face but he felt the smile throughout his entire nervous system.

“Hold him,” the man said, with emphasis, to the guards, who gripped him tighter.

Illya focused on the conviction — or belief; such plans had gone awry more than once — that he was not going to die. Therefore all he had to do was take a beating. He’d done it before. It was a matter of balance: Enough detachment to not panic and tense up or resist; enough focus and physical control to minimize injury.

But no matter how many times he went through it, Illya thought as the guard drew back a fist — it always hurt.

***

Illya came to in his room, on the bed, where he’d been unceremoniously dropped. He woke tensed, ready for defense — then moaned as his entire body screamed in protest.

He breathed slowly, deeply, trying to relax, squinting into the morning sunlight that shone through the window. With beatings as with hangovers, he always preferred to sleep through the entire recovery process. That rarely happened.

He sat up gradually, stripped off his clothes, and moved creakily into the bathroom.

He was simply letting the hot water run over his body when he opened one eye to see the door swing inward, then close. Through the steam it was hard to tell but he thought it was Lily. The guess was confirmed when she went to the window and opened it wide. The steam began gushing out, clearing the air to reveal the girl approaching the shower.

“To what do I owe—” he began.

“No. Don’t turn it off.”

He stopped his hand on the way to the faucet knob, forcing his brain back into action. “Bugs in here?” He hadn’t found any.

“No, but they’re very sensitive. I only have a second or it’ll look suspicious.”

He realized then why she’d opened the window — steamed clothes would give her away — and he adjusted the knobs to make the flow a little less hot, thankful for the opaque shower door.

“Listen,” she said. “Don’t try to escape again.”

“I could get the same advice from your uncle.”

“There’re too many men. Wait. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before. I tried  ...  well, never mind. I have a plan, but it may take a couple of days.”

“I could be dead or worse by then,” he said.

“Especially if you try to escape again,” she said tartly, then noticed the steam was gone. “You’re not stupid, are you?”

“I might return the compliment,” he said. “What—”

“No time,” she glanced at the door. “Your lunch is out there. _Wait_.”

“If you expect me to sit here patiently and—”

“I don’t care if you sit patiently. Scream. Yell, bang on the walls. Throw things. I don’t care. In fact, it’s probably better if you do. I don’t know. Just wait. I have .. a plan. It’s the only thing I could think of.”

He looked hard at her, realized she was blushing, trying not to look directly at him even though the glass door effectively preserved his modesty — or hers.

“Why should I trust you?” he asked.

She met his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me if you do or not.  But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m scared to death, and I’m getting out of here first chance I get. I’ll do what I can to take you with me if that’s what you want.” She moved to the door.

“It is—” he began, but she was gone.

***

That afternoon, while he was rereading Gargantua and wondering what kind of demented cretin would write such a thing, the door opened.

“Housekeeping.”

Lily came in with a bucket over one arm and a pile of linens in the other. The guard closed the door as Illya gladly dropped the book, got up and crossed to her, taking the sheets and towels from her.

“We’ve got about 20 minutes,” she said, low, and hope sparked in his stomach. “The monitors are down. Some animal got into the transformer. The power is off all over the house.”

He looked at the door and Lily caught his arm.

“No. All the guards and locked doors still apply. They sent someone into town to buy some new transformer part or something.”

“I saw the car leave,” Illya acknowledged.

“I got up here as soon as I could. This was the only way I could think of to be able to stay a few minutes without it looking suspicious.” She started to strip the bed. “This was a lucky chance. I wasn’t sure I would get the opportunity to explain. I’ve been trying to —”

“Yes.” Illya smiled slightly. “I finally figured out the cutlery.”

“They don’t trust me much, so they don’t tell me much. They won’t even let me have  a pen and paper. But I’ve been trying to be helpful to them, show my uncle I’m  ...  well, loyal, and not too clever. I’m hoping it worked..”

“I still think I ought to—”

“No!” she exclaimed, then caught herself, glancing at the door. “For heaven’s sake, just trust me a little. They’re going to send me into town to pick up groceries. It’ll be after dark tonight. I think my uncle is going to start his process on you, but  ... ” She looked at him, chewing her lip. “One time shouldn’t do too much harm, right?”

“I hope not. How will I get to the car?”

“Laundry,” she said. “Spill a pot of coffee or a bowl of soup at dinner — I’ll bring you plenty of spillables. The bedspread—” she indicated it, now rumpled up on the floor as she tucked the fresh sheets in place. “That way I’ll need to use the big hamper.”

“Ah.”

“The laundry room is next to the garage. I’ll have to leave you there for a bit. But don’t move once you’re there. Those men are all over the place.”

“Yes. I’ve been made aware of that fact.”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry. How badly did they hurt you?”

“Not as badly as they wanted to, I’m sure.”

She picked up the blankets, began smoothing them over the sheets. “That’s because he wants you healthy for his machine, whatever it is.”

“Very comforting.” Illya picked up the bedspread and helped her return it to its usual place.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m doing the best I can. This whole thing ... my uncle, you, the men with the guns ... ” She spread her hands across the bed, not looking at him. “I’m afraid.” She turned away and collected the old sheets, went into the bathroom and came out again, loaded down with towels. Illya stopped her.

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. Thank you for everything you are doing.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.” She hugged the pile of towels and sheets, eyes glittering. “I’ve never been really afraid.” She laughed weakly. “I feel sick all the time. I think my uncle would actually kill me if  ...  I’ve never had to think that kind of thing before in my life. I’m really scared.”

“Then why are you helping me?”

She shook her head. “Because it’s wrong. Because I’m out of my mind. I don’t know.” She met his gaze, her eyes pinched with fear. “Because it’s wrong.”

“Thank you.” He took hold of her arms, knowing what he was about to say might not have much value, but wanting to give her some reassurance. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you, Lily. I promise you.”

He could see that she didn’t fully believe him — or, rather, didn’t believe he’d be able to do what he’d promised — but a hint of calm returned to her face.

“I’d better go.” She sidled past him and tapped in the door. The guard let her out. Illya picked up the pile of fresh towels and took them into the bathroom.

***

An hour later, two men took him bodily down to Dr. Xavier’s laboratory, their fingers bruising his biceps. Still, he had to admit he might not have made it under his own power.

Dr. Xavier, seated at a computer console, his back to the door, faced a metal and glass enclosure that looked chillingly like a gas chamber in the center of the cold, windowless room. He turned his chair around, smiling, and placed his broad brown hands on his knees.

“Welcome, Mr. Kuryakin. My, but you are a mess. Nothing broken, I hope?”

“I hope so too,” Illya said.

“It doesn’t really matter. You aren’t likely to live very long one way or the other. If my device fails, I’ll have the satisfaction of venting some of my professional frustration on your person. If I succeed, eventually UNCLE will detect evidence of your betrayal and kill you themselves.”

“You obviously don’t expect to make a very convincing double agent out of me,” Illya said.

Dr. Xavier smiled. “Well, yes and no. You see, part of my plan involves the instilling of fear. Doubt. Inner dissention. It’s necessary that UNCLE realize I can reprogram any of their agents. For them to realize they’ve been duped, of course, at some point they must be allowed to penetrate the deception. You’ll no doubt be executed as a traitor, but they’ll never be sure, from that moment on, when they send an agent into the field, if they’ll be getting a double agent back.” Dr. Xavier’s smile broadened. “I only wish I could see Alexander Waverly’s face when he learns what you have been turned into.”

Something on the panel beeped and the lights flickered. Xavier turned briefly to adjust a knob. “Of course you realize,” he said, turning back to face Illya, “that UNCLE is only a test case, step one of a much grander plan.”

“Of course.”

“There was a time when many great men labored together to rule the world,” Dr. Xavier began pensively. “Not like today, when petty despots bicker over their tiny realms, with no dreams beyond avarice. We had visions of greatness.”

“You mean you and your Nazi chums,” Illya said tersely.

“Indeed yes,” Dr. Xavier smiled — not at Illya, but in recollection. “In those days our aims were of the highest. Great minds with a shared vision of a perfect world—”

“I see your aim today is to bore me to death with your sick reminiscences,” Illya interrupted. His guards shook him a little, and the one on the left backhanded him across the ear.

Dr. Xavier glared at him. “Your bravado is amusing, considering that after a few sessions with my device you will happily lick the soles of my boots.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Illya muttered.

“Put him in,” Dr. Xavier said.

The guards carried him into the circular chamber, and Dr. Xavier followed. The metal floor rang under their bootheels. He struggled as they shoved him down into the padded chair, but each man outweighed him by about 50 pounds, all of it muscle, and they took no chances, holding him with bone-bruising grips on his shoulders and thighs as Dr. Xavier fastened the restraining straps.

As each strap tightened, Illya’s heartrate and the pressure in his stomach increased. Groping for calm, he took in deliberate breaths of the chill air, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his battered torso. The dead cold in the room needled through his sweater.

Dr. Xavier set the electrodes in place on Illya’s temples, forehead and brainstem.

The three men stepped back and watched, smiling, as Illya struggled against the restraints.

“Out,” Dr. Xavier ordered. He followed the guards and closed the door, leaving Illya in the silence cold chamber, the air pressing on his eardrums.

Dr. Xavier sat again at the console, clearly visible from the glass booth. Something crackled briefly and Illya tensed, but then Dr. Xavier’s voice came through over a speaker.

“I hope you can hear me. I shall be able to hear you. I would suggest that you relax if I thought it would do any good, but I feel compelled to tell you that there will be some  ... discomfort. And resistance  ... ” He smiled. “ ...   intensifies it.”

He flipped switches and turned knobs. The room lights dimmed, then flickered, and with a harsh buzz, the machine glowed into life.

***

Nightmare. Shouts, screams echoed swirling in his head. Bound, pinned, trapped, he watched  ...  he saw a young woman, naked, bleeding, brutally raped by one in a line of hulking, leering soldiers; an old man hobbling, cut down in bloody shreds by machine gun fire, a screaming baby tossed aloft and spitted, in a slow motion ballet of horror, on a bayonet; every brief image underlined by a voice, each word a hot iron searing guilt into his brain: _Your fault. Your fault. You cannot help them. You cannot save them. Your fault. Your fault._

Despite the horror, his resistance, his denial, stood firm.

The onslaught of atrocities marched on: children slaughtered, grandmothers brutalized, innocents burned and gassed and machine gunned and  ... _all of it because of you. Because of you  ..._ the voice, constant, probing, needling, insidiously low, under his defenses like a snake under a fence. Unceasing, blood and fire and screams filled his mind, blocking thought, chipping away at denial.

As his strength waned, his wall began to falter, and the images grew stronger, feeding on his fears, his deeper, personal fears.

His mother — a vague emotion-charged blur in his mind — shrieking his name, pleading for help as a hugely muscled brute hauled her back, ripping at her clothes, flinging her to the ground, fire erupting all around  ...   _why won’t you help me?_

His father — uniformed, proud, ramrod straight — stripped of rank, beaten, in tatters, humiliated, hammered to death by the bullets of a firing squad _...  you gave me to them, you turned me over to them  ..._

April, screaming in pain as knives mutilated her, cutting away beauty, limbs, life  ...   _your fault, you betrayed me_  ...  Mark, writhing on a table surrounded by gore-spattered butchers with hacksaws and scalpels  ...   _you didn’t save me, you didn’t help me_  ...

Mr. Waverly — indestructible, indomitable Mr. Waverly — on his knees, a beaten, bruised wreck begging for mercy as the gun — _your gun_ — was placed to his temple.

Napoleon  ...  bound, blood-drenched, face a white rictus of pain, sobbing in fear, as Illya had never seen even under the cruelest of tortures, as the knife, long and thin and very sharp, was set to the top of his thigh, to expertly flay the skin away  ...   _and you are holding the knife, it is in your hand_  ...  Napoleon’s screams  ...   _he screams your name, traitor_  ...

***

Illya came to in a hallway, as two men dragged him toward a door. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he recognized his ‘cell’ as the guard there opened the door. The two men lifted him and flung him toward the bed. He landed half on it, turned and sank to the floor in a boneless, hopeless heap, hearing the door closing, locking.

Sensation trickled like ice water throughout his body. His brain pounded in his skull. His arms and legs burned where the guards’ grip had crushed them. His mouth burned; perhaps he’d bitten his tongue.

Shaking, he hauled himself up from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, stomach roiling.

He closed bleary eyes and the images behind them pounced — blood, pain, helpless rage — and that voice, whispering his guilt.

His body knotted and his guts writhed. He staggered to his feet and into the bathroom, vomiting up his last meal. His legs betrayed him and he collapsed onto the cold tile, trembling, gasping for air and calm.

_It isn’t true. None of it. It’s the machine. None of it is real. You haven’t done anything wrong. You aren’t a traitor. You aren’t._

An icy, clear thought dashed across his brain: _What if you are? This is exactly what Dr. Xavier would want you to be thinking._

Moaning, he curled into a ball on the cold floor. His last coherent thought — so coherent he even mocked himself for its pathetic helplessness — was: _Napoleon — where are you?_

 

The next thing he knew he was being gently shaken. Cold and stiff, he turned over.

“Get up,” Lily said. “You can’t sleep on the floor like this.” She pulled him into a sitting position. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He blinked at her, scrubbed a shaky hand across his eyes. His arm weighed a thousand pounds.

“Can you get up?” she asked. He stared blankly at the far wall. She got up. He heard the toilet flush and the tap run, then she was back, wiping his face with a blessedly warm cloth. Tears filled his eyes, spilled down his face.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I heard you scream—” She stopped. He forced his eyes to focus on her. She was blushing.

“Did I scream?” he asked, a little surprised.

She nodded. “I swear we’re getting out of here. Tonight.” She held his eyes, her gaze a promise. “Tonight.”

He sighed. “Good.”

She got up once again. “Can you stand? You should go to bed, I think, for a while.”

He shook his head, drawing his feet under him. “Not yet.”

She put a hand to his elbow to steady him as he rose to his feet, leaning on the wall. He turned to face the shower, awkwardly pulling off his sweater.

Lily moved to the door. “Be ready after dark. Remember to spill something on the bedspread. I’ve brought your dinner. Soup and coffee.” She gave him a faint, encouraging smile. “Have your shower and get some rest. I’ll be back.”

Gradually the hot water brought Illya back to life, and to what he hoped was rational thought. His first rational thought was that he had not broken. He had seen the effectiveness of the machine in turning men who had also, probably, believed they could not be turned, but even Dr. Xavier had said several treatments were necessary, and Illya’s own pride would not let him seriously entertain the notion that he would break sooner than most men.

No. The images were still there, but as nightmare memories to be fought and beaten, not as any reality to be accepted.

Illya leaned against the steamy slick tiles, utterly drained. Finally he turned off the water, dried off, dressed in the fresh clothes Lily had brought, and sat on the bed looking at the food. The idea of eating made his stomach twist. He pulled the bedspread onto the floor and poured soup on it, then lay down on top of the blankets. It was a few minutes before he could force his eyes to close. He dropped into sleep immediately.

***

Gen. Cooke and Lt. White were in Mr. Waverly’s office when one of the agents assigned to review the testimony of Illya’s neighbors came in.

“We may have something, sir,” she said. “I was looking for Mr. Solo.”

‘What is it, Miss Took?” Mr. Waverly demanded.

“Well, sir, one of Mr. Kuryakin’s neighbors, an elderly woman by the name of Edith Blankenship, told our interviewers that her granddaughter Alice disappeared that same night. Alice had been living with her for about four months, and according to Mrs. Blankenship she had some acquaintance with Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Hm.” Mr. Waverly fiddled with his pipe, observing the keen interest of the two militayr men with some annoyance. He’d have preferred to learn of this in their absence.

“What does Mrs.  ...  ah  ...  Blankenship believe has happened to her granddaughter?” he asked.

Agent Took consulted the file. “She thinks Alice has run off to a commune.”

“What?” Gen. Cook barked. Agent Took blinked at him.

“A communal living establishment,” she said. “Usually in rural areas, set up by young, anti-establishment types who—”

“I know what a damn’ commune is,” Gen. Cooke said. “Hippies.”

“Where is this commune?” Lt. White asked. After a covert glance at Waverly, she consulted the file again.

“Vermont. Near Clearlake.”

Mr. Waverly allowed none of the copious astonishment he was feeling to show. Could it possibly be that Mr. Solo’s hunch had some basis in truth?

“Go,” Gen. Cooke said to Lt. White. “He could be hiding out at this commune with this girl.”

Mr. Waverly protested. “Really, general, I hardly think Mr. Kuryakin has abandoned his home and career to become a  ...  a counterculture guru sitting in the woods, growing his own carrots and playing the  ...  sitar.”

Gen. Cooke was undaunted. “It’s well known that these young antiestablishment brats have communist sympathies. Where the hell do you think they got ‘communes’ from?” Again he addressed White, who was already at the door. “Take some men. Get up there. See if Kuryakin is there. If he is, get him.”

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Waverly pulled his pipe from his mouth, said peaceably, “We’d like our man back alive, lieutenant.”

White left.

***

When Lily wheeled her laundry cart into the room, Illya still lay asleep, stretched out stiff atop the blankets.

“Oh, what a mess!” she exclaimed as the guard shut the door behind her.

Illya started awake, glaring at her unseeing for a moment that sent a chill snaking up her spine. Then he blinked, sitting up and gasping in pain, and rolled off the bed to his feet.

“Come on,” she mouthed, waving at the laundry cart. She went into the bathroom and grabbed all the towels and clothes there. She came out and started to throw the whole mess into the cart, but he stopped her, then drew her by the wrist to the bed. He pulled down the blankets and gestured. Understanding, she mounded the old laundry, and a spare pillow, into a vaguely human shape, over which he pulled the blankets.

He climbed into the hamper and she collected the soiled bedspread. The scent of chicken soup wafted up to her as she spread the cloth carefully over him. She took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face, and knocked to be let out.

The guard opened the door and glanced into the hamper.

“He spilled his soup,” she stage-whispered, heart slamming against her sternum. She tilted her head toward the bed and the guard looked at the lump thereon.

“Poor man,” she said, grinning, amazed that he couldn’t hear her heart. “I think he was worn out from my uncle’s  ...  improvement program.”

The guard laughed and she wheeled the cart past him.

_Thank you, God. Now walk briskly. Not too fast, not too slow. You’re just going downstairs to do the laundry. That’s all._

In the bottom of the hamper Illya tried to brace himself against the metal frame as the bag jounced from side to side. He could smell chicken soup and a musty, damp, imprecise scent mixed from clean and dirty laundry. The cloth all around him muffled any sound — or the hallway was simply very quiet.

The hamper stopped. He heard a mechanical grinding sound and when it stopped the cart moved forward, bouncing over a sharp bump, then stopping. The grinding sound began again. Illya realized they were in an elevator even as the car began to descend.

He tried to make himself comfortable without making any obvious movements — it was possible, despite the silence, that Lily wasn’t alone.

The lift jolted to a stop and the doors opened. The cart lurched forward, then stopped.

“Lily.”

Every cell in Illya’s body went on alert.

“Hello, uncle,” Lily answered, her tone blessedly casual. “You’ve been out?”

“No. I sent one of those musclebound imbeciles to Clearlake for an extra generator and some fuel.” A heavy thud shook the elevator. “The lights keep flickering every time I use my machine. I can’t see what I’m doing. But he left it in the car. I came down to get it.”

“You shouldn’t lift that,” Lily said. “Let those men do that kind of thing.”

Dr. Xavier coughed out a dismissive laugh. “I wouldn’t trust them to change a lightbulb. Doing a little laundry?”

Silence. Illya imagined Lily nodding.

“Aren’t you going into town for groceries?” he asked.

“In a bit. I wanted to get the laundry started. It can run while I’m gone.”

“That cover is from Kuryakin’s room,” Dr. Xavier said. Illya’s blood froze.

Again Lily’s voice was a godsend to his nerves. Calm, uninterested, she said, “He spilled soup on it — see? I wanted to get it started first, since it’ll take so long to dry.”

Silence. Illya tensed again, ready to strike out if the cover above him moved.

Then the hamper bounced out of the elevator and Dr. Xavier’s voice came from farther away:

“Don’t forget to pick up the aspirin for me.”

“I won’t.”

Illya heard the elevator door close. The hamper rolled clattering across a stretch of bare floor, swung to one side, veered around a corner and stopped. The blanket was yanked away to reveal Lily’s ghost-white face, lit from the side by the light of one naked bulb.

“Come on.”

He clambered out of the hamper, one arm pressed against his aching ribs. They were in a small bare laundry room.

“We need to get out of here right now. Something in his eyes ... he’s suspicious.” She peered around the doorframe for a moment. “Come on.”

They trotted along a concrete corridor to a garage, lit by a few lamps and containing two late-model sedans and a battered paneled truck.  The garage doors were open, revealing a cloudy, misty night.

Lily went to the nearest car and got in. Illya climbed into the passenger side and ducked down. Lily started the car, pulling out. She drove maddeningly slowly while Illya crouched cold on the floor, listening to the crunch of tires over gravel and the off-kilter cycling of the engine. The gravel noise changed to a softer sound, dirt or asphalt, and the engine coughed as she accelerated.

Illya climbed stiffly up onto the seat. Once his head was above the dash he realized why she was driving so slowly; the road twisted and curved among tall trees pressing close on either side. The headlights penetrated only a little into the curling mists, and there was no other light. Indeed, she was driving a little faster than was safe, but Illya could  neither blame her nor suggest she slow down. The thought of another session in Dr. Xavier’s machine made him want to slam his own foot onto the gas pedal.

“I can’t believe it,” Lily said, her hands white-knuckle-tight on the wheel. Her voice shook. “I can’t believe we got away.”

“We aren’t away yet,” he cautioned her. “If your uncle was suspicious he might be after us already. Do you know where we’re going, by the way?”

“Vaguely. I’ve only been to Clearlake once. It’s a tiny town at the other end of the lake. About 20 miles. But we can get to the highway from there.”

 

“How long have you been here?”

“Almost two months. My uncle came and got me. He offered to pay for me to go to graduate school if I helped him out here for a few months.” She laughed nervously. “I thought he meant as a secretary, you know, or a housekeeper. I don’t really know him — well, I thought I knew him a little, but I suppose I don’t know him at all. I thought he was your typical brilliant and slightly odd scientist.” She shivered, reached over to turn on the heater.

“Do you know what happened to Alice?” Illya asked. He felt cold himself, nauseated and dizzy.

She glanced at him. “I don’t know any Alice.”

“She wasn’t at the house? A tall blond girl, about your age?”

“There was only me and my uncle and those fine upstanding Harvard graduates with the guns.”

Illya wondered. It was possible they’d used Alice, then killed her. It was equally possible she’d been a willing accomplice who’d been paid off and had disappeared after fulfilling her assignment. Yet  ...  she had been in his apartment building for four months, well before the Bogota case.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said. “There is more at stake here than just my life, but on behalf of my life, I thank you.”

“Are you really a Russian spy?” she said. “That’s what my uncle said.”

Illya considered. “I am Russian. And I am a spy, if you wish to call it that.”

He stopped and she glanced his way.

“But ... ” she prompted.

“But I’m not a Russian spy in the sense I think you mean. I work for the UNCLE.”

“My uncle said that. But he said it was just a  ...  a cover. That you were really a traitor. He didn’t specify to whom.”

“He tried to make me one,” Illya said. “To UNCLE.”

“I thought spies were  ...  well, you don’t seem like a very violent person.”

Illya considered replying that he wasn’t violent by choice, but that of course was nonsense. He’d chosen a violent profession — not for the sake of violence, but because he wanted to make a difference.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” he said instead, hunkering down in the seat, both arms crossed over his aching torso. He was anxious to get back home — more, anxious to get back and make sure Dr. Xavier’s procedure had done no permanent damage. Just getting back to UNCLE wouldn’t mean he was safe. Anticipating the look on Mr. Waverly’s face when he learned what had been attempted, Illya grimaced, sinking even lower in the seat.

 

Lily glanced over at him. He wasn’t dangerous looking, but she remembered the ice of his glare when she’d awakened him, before he’d realized who she was. The look made her think of the way a landslide killed: abstractly, ruthlessly, almost by the way.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” she blurted.

“Do you really want to know?” he said coolly. He wished she’d just drive and let him worry in peace.

“No, but I have a feeling you’ve just answered me all the same. My uncle is out of his mind, isn’t he?”

Illya watched the mist-laced trees flicker past on either side.

“Yes and no. He’s not the traditional sort of crazy. He’s sane enough to have arranged all this—” He gestured broadly, indicating their situation— “and to have constructed a truly brilliant, if diabolical, machine. His hatred, though, and his goals  ...  those are not sane.”

The road dipped, then levelled to come out of the trees and run alongside the placid lake.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t do more, sooner, to stop him hurting you.”

“There’s no permanent damage done,” Illya said, then wondered why it was so important to him that he make that point. That tiny doubt in the back of his mind — the one that insisted _how would you know if your thoughts had been altered?_ — refused to be silenced.

The lake was narrower at this point; Illya could see the old Victorian house on the far shore. “Is that the  ...  commune?”

“Yes. About a dozen hippies live there. I talked to a couple of them the one time I was in Clearlake. They’re nice, but a little out there.”

“They might be able to help us,” Illya said.

“No phone,” Lily replied. “Also nonviolent. They’re getting back to nature.”

“Ah  ...  nonviolent nature. I’d forgotten about that,” Illya muttered sourly.

“I think there’s a car behind us,” Lily said, voice parched with sudden fear.

Illya turned to peer into the darkness behind them. Headlights flashed into view for a moment before disappearing as they rounded another curve.

“I think you’re right,” he said.

“What should we do?”

“Keep on. What else?”

“Maybe it’s not  ...  him,” she said, accelerating. Illya, yanked back against the seat, said, “Obviously your foot does not believe that.”

“The rest of me has its doubts too,” she said, leaning forward, intent on the dark, fog-shrouded road.

“Maybe I should drive,” Illya suggested.

She shot him a glance. “You want me to pull over?”

“Never mind.” He looked back again. “We may be outrunning them.”

They rounded another tight curve, the road skirting right along the lakeshore — and a car stood crosswise on the road ahead.

Lily shrieked and yanked the wheel hard, stomping on the brake. The car skidded and ran bouncing off the road, thumping to a jarring halt 10 feet from the dark waters of the lake. The sudden stop flung both of them against the dash. Before they could recover breath or balance, both car doors were jerked open and they were hauled out, dragged before Dr. Xavier.

In the moonlight his face was ghastly, more menacing than the rifles cradled in the brawny arms of the men who flanked him.

Illya could feel Lily trembling beside him. Dr. Xavier regarded them. In the quiet, Illya heard their erstwhile getaway car still running.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Lily,” Dr. Xavier said. Illya expected Lily to offer some excuse, perhaps to claim she’d been forced. She said nothing. He realized, looking at her, that she was too frightened to speak.

“I made her do it,” Illya put in quickly, doubting it would help.

Dr. Xavier laughed. “No you didn’t. And it wouldn’t matter if you had. Take him to my car. I think it’s time for another treatment.”

Ice splintered in lllya’s gut.

“No!” Lily cried.

“Put my niece back in the car,” Dr. Xavier ordered. “Run it into the lake.”

White as a scream, Lily sagged in the grip of the man holding her. He dragged her bodily to the still-running car.

Illya twisted free of his captor, darted toward Lily. The crack of rifle fire pierced the quiet. The bullet slammed into his leg, wrenching him to the ground. He curled inward, clenched in agony.

He was lifted by two men and carried away, away from Lily’s screams, away from the sound of the running engine. A car door opened and he was dragged onto a seat, pushed upright. Men got in on either side of him and the doors closed. Illya clutched his leg, gasping for calm, feeling the hot blood running over his hands.

Dr. Xavier got in the front and turned.

“It’s too bad. If she’d just gone on her own, I’d have let her go. As it is  ... ”

Illya growled a curse and dove for the door; the guards grabbed him, jerking him back into the seat. He strained to see, but could only discern black sky and treetops from this angle. After a minute or two the last two men returned, climbing into the front on either side of Dr. Xavier.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” one of the men said. The other started the car.

“Good. Let’s get back. I have work to do.”

Illya, hands sticky with his own blood, bent double over his throbbing leg, burning inside with frustrated rage. Beneath that rage pooled the cold fear of what awaited him in Dr. Xavier’s machine.

***

Napoleon drove north on Highway 91, weaving deftly through metropolitan traffic, just enough above the speed limit to feel he was making progress without drawing too much attention from the police.

The day was clear and cool. The drive gave him plenty of time to think about what he was doing, what he’d done — what he’d almost done — and what the hell he was going to do if this didn’t pan out. Mr. Waverly wasn’t likely to bust him down to filing reports or the like, but he’d be well justified.

But then Mr. Waverly was already keen to assign Napoleon to new fieldwork without Illya. If this effort failed, he might never find his partner. And if he didn’t ...

Napoleon gripped the wheel tighter. He couldn’t imagine giving up field work. That would be too much like simply lying down to die. He also couldn’t imagine a lifetime of assignments without Illya.

A new partner  ...  Napoleon’s gut knotted into anger and resentment just thinking about it. Betrayal. It felt precisely like betrayal. It also wouldn’t be fair to that agent — to be yoked to a partner who wouldn’t be able to accept him or her, who’d constantly be comparing — who could measure up? He and Illya were the best. There’d be no settling after that.

Alone. That was the other option. Slightly less intolerable  ...  but still unacceptable.

Napoleon didn’t believe in magic, or fate — he realized he’d been having to say things like that to himself a lot lately — but there were no rational words that touched what he and Illya had. It couldn’t be replaced. It could _not_ be lost. If he had to keep searching forever, using a hunch, a crystal ball or a goddamned divining rod, he’d do it.

Napoleon pressed a little harder on the accelerator, zipping past a produce truck to find open highway.

***

One of the guards efficiently bandaged the flesh wound in Illya’s thigh and he was taken back to Dr. Xavier’s laboratory.

“I can see I need to accelerate my conditioning program if I hope to keep you  ...  under control,” Dr.  Xavier said as he positioned himself behind the console. “Tie him securely,” he told the guards. They shoved Illya into the chair. Panic, clenched in the iron fist of his will, writhed to break free.

Illya strained with all his waning strength at the stiff leather bonds, wrenching his aching body this way and that. Not even the pretense of calm this time — he tasted the acid of fear in his mouth. Taut, eyes on Dr. Xavier, he paused to breathe, scrambling for clear thought.

And the nightmares struck again.

***

“One of the most interesting things about the human mind,” Dr. Xavier was saying, “is its ability to lie itself.”

Illya blinked, blinked again.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Kuryakin?”

He could see his own thighs. Black jeans, the left leg torn and bloody, with a dirty white bandage about it. He could see his hands, pale, bruised claws clenched tight about the ends of the chair arms. He lifted his head slowly and inhaled. Dr. Xavier stood a few feet away, arms crossed, smiling at him.

His indrawn breath was stopped by the hard strap about his chest. Although it didn’t seem likely, if asked Illya would have said that it was at that point his heart started beating again. Blood returned to his extremities. His leg began to throb, a split second after each heartbeat; his arms tingled. It came last, it seemed, to his brain.

“Yes. My machine and I take advantage of that propensity. You may have realized that for yourself. I understand you are a scientist also, and I know you perused my working notes in Bogota.”

An image flashed in Illya’s mind. “They were in German.”

“Indeed yes. The language of my mentors, the language of the mind. But my point is that one of the reasons my technique works so well is that it electronically stimulates and alters deep thought patterns without touching the conscious, surface patterns, those thoughts and words and acts that are most voluntary.”

Illya’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t yet understand Dr. Xavier’s words, but he felt their danger.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Xavier asked.

“Sick,” Illya admitted.

“That will pass. As I was saying, the subject, once successfully implanted with those directives necessary to achieve my desire, can depart still believing in his own innocence. Still believing he’s stood firm, still believing he hates me and all I stand for.”

Illya grit his teeth, groped for rational thought. _I am alive. I must get away. Dr. Xavier and his machine must be destroyed._

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dr. Xavier said, smiling. “Or what you _think_ you’re thinking.”

Doubt reached for Illya, like the hands of a corpse from a fresh-dug grave. He shut it out. True or false, he had to ignore it. Dr. Xavier was lying. He hadn’t been brainwashed yet. Persuading him that he had been was simply a way of weakening his defense.

“Yes,” Dr. Xavier said. “Excellent. While the surface mind believes itself free, the deeply implanted suggestions bide their time for coming forward.”

He paused, visibly struck by a thought. “Really, I was foolish to have my niece killed, despite her disloyalty. That very disloyalty would have made her an excellent test subject. And she was so young and lovely. And so fond of you, for some reason, Mr. Kuryakin. After all, she died trying to save you.”

Illya’s fists reclenched. “If you truly believe I am your creature, take off these restraints and see how long it takes me to kill you with my bare hands.”

Dr. Xavier chuckled, turned his head away. “Guards.”

The two musclemen came in.

“Take him back to his room.”

As they unstrapped Illya, Dr. Xavier said, “One more session before we set you free. If you want to call it that. But in the morning. I’m quite tired.”

Illya lunged at Dr. Xavier as soon as he was loose. The guards caught him in the air and carried him between them as easily as if he were a corpse.

***

Nightfall found Napoleon on a narrow country road that wound through pine-carpeted hills, leading deep into the mountains.

He’d had to make a few stops at various crossroads, pausing like an idiot to let the little voice tug him in one direction or another. So far the technique, though deeply embarrassing, had kept him on track — as far as his inner voice was concerned. All his other voices were telling him he was so far off track it was time for some psychiatric counseling.

He hunched over the wheel, stiff, eyes pinched with fatigue. Every once in a while he was surprised — as if he’d just awakened from sleep and found himself here — by the beauty of the countryside. On his right a lake stretched still, black and silver in the moonlight. Great pines marched up the side of the valley to his left. He rolled the window down to breathe in the cold, pine-tangy air. _Good. Keep me awake_.

Anxiety had long since devoured his stomach and was now eating into other major organs, and he was exhausted. He wasn’t going to stop, though. Not ‘til he dropped. Not even then.

The road and he came around a curve offering a good view of the lake. Something — not his brain — shouted _Stop_! to his muscles, dropping a rock into that pool of acid inside him. He’d stomped on the brake before he saw the black square on the lake: a car rooftop.

Napoleon stopped the car in the road and flung the door open, stripping off jacket and gun even as he ran, stumbling on half-numb feet, down the grass and sand to the water.

He plunged in, teeth clenched against the needling shock of icy water, and stroked powerfully toward the car.

Ducking under, he tried the door. It opened sluggishly and he pushed himself into the cold blackness inside. Immediately he touched a body. He grabbed it and pulled himself out of the car, breaking the surface and hauling the victim up after him. The first shock: black hair. The second: it was a woman.

Napoleon heaved her dead weight onto the roof of the car and dove back under to doublecheck. A search-by-touch of the interior revealed no other victims. He swam back out, grabbed the girl and took her to shore, drawing her up on the beach to perform CPR.

After only a few breaths and compressions she stirred and coughed. Shivering, Napoleon lifted her ice-cold body and turned her over to help her expel water. She coughed wretchedly for a minute or so, while Napoleon caught his breath, then lay limp in his arms.

He gently lifted her into a sitting position, pushing hair out of her face to reveal dark eyes wide with shock. She started shaking and Napoleon said automatically:

“You’re all right. Take it easy.” He picked her up and carried her to his car — almost dropping her at the door when she started to flail violently.

“It’s okay,” he said, setting her feet on the road and holding her, trying to get her to look at him. “It’s okay, miss. I just want to get you warm.”

She stopped, staring full at him for a long moment, and the terror drained from her eyes. She limply allowed him to help her into the car. He shut the door and went back to collect his gun, jacket and shoes, puzzled. The urge to plunge into the lake had been overwhelming; Napoleon had been certain it was Illya in that car. So — why hadn’t it been?

He returned to the car, throwing his dry clothes in the backseat and replacing his gun in the damp holster; the leather shouldn’t transfer too much moisture to the weapon, and anyway he wanted it on him.

He closed the door, turned the heater on and started off up the road. Although he knew better, he said, “There wasn’t anyone else in the car with you?”

Staring at him, she shook her head. Then, softly, “Thank you.”

_Don’t thank me. Thank my crazy little inner voice for deciding to take a detour._

 “You’re welcome. Care to tell me what happened? Accident?”

She said nothing.

“Who are you? Where can I drop you off?”

“Who are you?” she asked instead. “Are you a cop?”

“No. I’m Napoleon Solo. I’m with the UNCLE.”

He felt the electricity crackle between them even before she exclaimed:

“Oh my God — are you looking for Mr. Kuryakin?”

He hit the brake and they both flopped forward, then back.

“Where is he?” He twisted soggily in the seat to face her.

“I don’t know. They shot him.”

“When?” Napoleon barked, and she flinched. “Where?”

“Here.” She pointed a shaking hand back toward her car. “I don’t know how long ago. Not long. I was running away, and Mr. Kuryakin was with me. But they caught us there. My uncle said  ...  he said to drive me into the lake. Mr. Kuryakin tried to stop them.”

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know. I saw one of the guards fire his gun, and I saw Mr. Kuryakin fall. Then they put me in the car.” She hugged herself, white-faced, staring at Napoleon.

“Your uncle?” Napoleon asked.

“Dr. Xavier.”

So he was alive. “Where is your uncle?” he asked, transferring his foot from brake to accelerator.

She didn’t answer.

“Look,” Napoleon said, “I need to get there. There’s a chance Illya’s still alive. If your uncle tried to have you killed, you have no reason to protect him.”

He looked at her. She jerked her head left, right.

“I don’t  ...  I’m afraid.”

Then Napoleon understood. “What’s your name?”

“Lily.”

“Lily, you don’t have to go back there. Is there somewhere safe I can take you?”

“Outer Mongolia,” she said.

“I have to get there,” Napoleon pressed. “Do you have any friends in the area? Is there a hotel?”

“He has guards. With guns,” she said flatly. “They’ll kill you.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just tell me how to get there.” He could find the place himself if he had to — he’d driven 8 hours on that conviction — but it’d be easier and faster to simply have directions.

“Just you?” she said. “On your own? There’s a dozen men with rifles. Don’t you have any  ...  what do the police call it? Backup?”

“Well, usually Illya’s my backup. As it is, I’m sort of on my own.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I know. Just tell me—”

“Turn right here — yes, right here.”

Napoleon yanked the wheel over and the car jerked onto a narrow dirt road.

“There’s no hotel,” she continued in the same dead calm voice. Napoleon suspected she was in shock. “There’s  ...  I have no friends here. There’s nowhere you can drop me off.”

Napoloen said nothing, waiting for her to finish whatever decision she was making.

“You should just turn around now and get the hell out of here,” she said, a little anger enlivening her tone.

“I can’t,” he said.

“They’ll kill you,” she repeated. “They’ll kill him _and_ you. My uncle’s insane.”

“I understand that—” he began, soothing. She exploded.

“No you don’t! He tried to kill me! My own uncle tried to kill me.”

Napoleon considered mentioning that his UNCLE regularly did the same to him, but she was clearly not in a fit state to appreciate humor.

“Lily, I’m sorry. I don’t want to drag you back into this after what you’ve been through.”

She stared at him, shaking, bedraggled, tears running down her face.

“But Illya is my partner and my friend. I’m going to get him out. I’ll do all I can to see that you’re safe—”

She choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s what he said. Then they shot him and ran my car into the lake.” Crying and laughing, she curled into a ball on the seat, against the door, as far from Napoleon and what he was asking as she could get.

“Lily, if you can get me within walking distance of Dr. Xavier, you can take the car and go. I don’t want to endanger you.”

She lifted her head. “There’s a bridge. Turn left just before it. That’s the road to the house.”

Napoleon breathed, carefully. “Thank you, Lily.”

After they’d turned Lily said, “If they know he’s here, why didn’t UNCLE send a lot of people after him?”

“Ah  ...  we didn’t know,” Napoleon hesitated. He was disinclined to elaborate, but he sensed her uncurling, showing interest, and he wanted to keep her from retreating again behind her fear — mostly because he didn’t want to lose the car. “I had a hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“My organization doesn’t put too much stock in hunches. That’s why I’m here alone.”

“You should call for help,” she said. “If you had a phone.”

“Good idea.” He’d forgotten he was following actual testimony now, not just dream voices. Mr. Waverly would probably be willing to send him some backup, although Napoleon wasn’t about to wait for it. Still, his boss deserved to know the situation, if only for putting up with his CEA’s erratic behavior.

Napoleon slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket. Then his outside pocket. Then, in increasing annoyance, and awkward contortion, all his other pockets.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“My communicator. Must’ve fallen out of my coat when I took my little moonlight swim.” He gave Lily a brief, rueful grin. “So much for backup. Looks like I’ll have to go it alone.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“Don’t do it. Get help.”

“I can’t wait. They might kill him.”

“And you.” She stared at him. “Is this bravery?”

He smiled wryly. “No. You might as well call breathing brave.”

The road hairpinned around a pile of boulders. Napoleon slowed the car to go around the curve.

“After all,” he said reasonably, “you tried to help him. And nearly lost your life over it.”

“That was different,” she argued, shaking her head. “I didn’t know I would almost get killed. Now I know. And you know.”

“You still helped a stranger. You had no reason to. I have reasons.”

“What reasons?”

He shrugged. “Every reason there is.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Well, I believe he’ll try,” Napoleon argued, mildly offended at her confidence in his failure.

“Slow down. You’ll be coming out of the trees and onto the grounds soon. You’ll want to—” She stopped as Napoleon doused the headlights, slowing the car to a crawl.

“If he’s your friend he wouldn’t want you to get killed,” she said, clearly surrendering.

“And vice versa,” Napoleon replied. “Tell me when to stop.”

“I already did,” she groused. “This side of those rocks right there.” She pointed to two whitewashed boulders set on either side of the road. Napoleon parked the car but left it running.

“Go ahead and go,” he said to her. “If there’s anything resembling a telephone in the vicinity, call the police. Tell them to contact UNCLE in New York City. Tell them—”

“There’s no telephones for miles except in there,” Lily said, nodding up the road. “The only other house for miles is the commune, and they don’t have a phone. The nearest town is an hour away.”

“Go,” he repeated.

“Go around through the woods at the back of the house,” she said. “The lawns have lights, but the guards don’t go into the woods at all, and the back yard is smaller, so  you can get closer to the house without being seen.”

He grabbed extra clips from the glove box. “Where are they keeping Illya?”

“I don’t know. That is, the room he was in is on the second floor, the —” she did some quick math— “fourth big window from the right side of the house. But if my uncle has him in the lab, that’s on the ground floor at the back, off the garage.”

“How long has your uncle had this house?” Napoleon asked, traps and sensors on his mind.

“It’s not his. He’s been here about two months. It belongs to the people who are financing all this. Some big organization. My uncle didn’t tell me who.”

Napoleon thought: THRUSH.

“The guards are all from them too. I’d’ve thought it was some foreign country, you know, out to overthrow our government, but I think the guards are all Americans.” She shrugged. “All I know is they’re big and mean. They beat up Mr. Kuryakin when he tried to escape. The first time, I mean.”

Napoleon opened the car door. Lily slid behind the wheel, said, at his questioning look:

“I’m going to turn the car around so it’s facing the hell away from here. Then I’ll wait as long as I can stand to.”

Napoleon beamed at her. “Thank you, Lily.”

“If any of those men come I’ll be gone so fast it’ll make your head spin,” she said earnestly.

“Fair enough.” Napoleon looked down at himself. “Hand me my jacket.”

She pulled it out from the backseat. He hated to put a dry coat over a wet shirt, but the shirt was white and the jacket grey. “Wish me luck,” he said, pulling it on.

She nodded, gaze intent on him. He had the feeling then that she’d wait, no matter how scared she got. He crossed the road and made his way into the darkness under the trees.

Richly scented damp undergrowth and forest debris cushioned his steps as he moved. Around the corner the house, a sprawling two-storey brick structure, came into view, the ground floor ablaze with light, the upper storey dark.

The drive crossed a broad stretch of well-kept lawn before descending to a basement level garage. Through the open door Napoleon saw a dark late-model sedan and a van.

He stopped behind a tree about 50 yards from the north end of the house as a burly man with a rifle left the garage and walked along the drive. Another man came around the front of the house. The two exchanged a nod and continued.

He ducked a little deeper into the cover of the woods, drew his gun, and continued on around the perimeter. He passed two more guards on the way.

At the back the woods ended about 50 feet from the house, which boasted a long covered brick patio and some white wooden lawn furniture. Light oozed from several curtained ground floor windows, but there were no yard lights.

Napoleon knelt at the edge of the woods and watched for a few minutes, cursing silently when two men came from either side of the house and crossed in the middle. He knew he should wait for their next intersection and time it, but anxiety burned away any patience he might normally have had. Illya was the patient one, anyway. Thinking of him spurred Napoleon forward.  He holstered his gun — a shot fired now would carry to too many unfriendly ears — and darted for the patio.

***

The guards stopped at the elevator, chuckling, and dropped Illya on the floor as one of them hit the up button.

The scant length of his remaining will from throwing up, Illya considered doing so on the guard’s shoes. Small comfort, but you had to take your pleasures where you could find them. When the elevator door cranked open they heaved him into the lift and again dropped him. He fell to his hands and knees on the cold metal floor and stayed there, eyes focused on the slowly narrowing gap between the sliding door and the wall.

“I’m sick of this,” one guard said. The other hmmed agreement.

“I can’t wait to get back to civilization.”

With a quick fierce hope that he’d judged rightly, Illya flung himself through the doorway just before it ground shut. He hit the floor outside hard, heard the shout cut off behind him, and scrambled to his feet, lunging dizzily down the corridor.

Two doors faced one another about 10 feet along the hall. Illya slammed into the wall beside the one on the left, leg and head throbbing explosively. He tried the knob. Unlocked. He opened it, heard the elevator door grinding open behind him, launched himself across the corridor and fumbled that door open. He slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, hearing heavy footfalls pound up the hall outside.

He peered around the darkened room. A piano featured prominently. There was a bay window, with a cushioned window seat.

“In here,” he heard a guard say in the corridor, then quiet. He staggered to the window, grateful he’d misdirected his pursuers for the moment.

He knelt on the window seat and tried the sash. Sealed. Locked, anyway, and all his waning strength couldn’t budge it.

He paused, gasping for breath, then got off the windowseat and opened it. Morbid thoughts of “Arsenic and Old Lace” spun in his head as he climbed inside the storage space and closed the top.

A moment later light trickled through the crack between seat and box.

“Where the hell could he have gotten in five seconds?” one guard growled.

“We’d better sound the alarm.”

“No! Xavier’ll have our asses. We’ll find him. He could barely walk. Come on.”

The light went out and Illya allowed himself to breathe again. Cold, shaking with exhaustion and nausea, he had little confidence in his ability to get far; the desire to do so would have to suffice.

Illya hauled himself out of the window seat and sat on it for a moment, thinking. If the guards were working their way up the corridor, in a few minutes he could make the elevator. From there he thought he could find his way back to the garage, hotwire the car ( _don’t think about Lily, in the other car, at the bottom of the lake, thanks to you_ ) ...

Illya shook his head violently. No time for guilt. If he couldn’t start the car he’d run. Or walk. Or crawl.

He got up, swayed, caught himself, one hand on the wall. His eyes wouldn’t stay focused. He pushed himself off the wall toward the door. It opened a crack and he spun sideways, taut, back to the wall, ready to strike.

A man entered, his furtive movements startlingly familiar, and shut the door behind him. Electricity flooded Illya. He reached up and flipped on the light.

***

Napoleon whirled, drawing his gun. Illya leaned limply against the wall behind him, eyes pinched in a drawn, white face that briefly stretched into a smile.

“About time,” he whispered and collapsed, sliding to the floor.

“No, no  ... ” Napoleon knelt, holstering his weapon, and lifted Illya’s head. “No you don’t. Come on, don’t make me carry you.” A swift onceover catalogued the bandage on Illya’s leg, the various bruises and cuts, and wrapped them up into a burning rage. Napoleon bit down on the fury. Rescue first. Revenge — most assuredly, revenge — later.

“Come on, partner.” He slapped Illya lightly and his eyes flickered open.

Illya blinked, looked around blankly. “What happened?”

“You must’ve skipped your afternoon nap.” Napoleon pulled his partner to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Try me,” Illya muttered, though his legs felt like rubber hoses. Napoleon drew his partner’s arm across his shoulders and shut off the light.

“We have a getaway car and driver; we just have to get there. Unless you have a better recommendation, I left an open window and an unconscious guard in the next room.”

A siren sliced through the quiet.

“I guess the guard woke up,” Napoleon said. “Any ideas?”

“The elevator,” Illya said. Napoleon opened the door and peered out for a moment, then yanked Illya through the doorway and down the hall. Illya hit the button while Napoleon stood, back against his partner’s, gun in hand, scanning the long hallway. The sound of the door grinding open made him start. Illya hit the button labeled ‘basement.’

The sirens had stopped when they got out of the elevator. The lower level was lit only by faint yellow light coming from the open doorway that led to the garage. Illya took the lead; in the doorway he abruptly planted his back against the wall. Pistol ready, Napoleon did the same. Bootheels clomped across concrete, nearing.

“We’re in deep shit now,” a voice said.

“He’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Illya risked a peek, pulled back and held up two fingers. Napoleon dug around in his pockets and pulled out a small knockout bomb, passing it to his partner. Illya waited, listening, as the footsteps came closer. He tossed the bomb, which exploded into a cloud of white gas just as the two men reached the doorway. They collapsed without a whimper.

Illya picked up a rifle and it nearly overbalanced him. Napoleon took it out of his hands, trading his UNCLE Special for it, and gave his partner a gentle shove in the direction of — he hoped — Lily and his car.

They dove into the cover of the trees as lights blared out across the grounds. Armed men burst from the front door and spread out, shouting to one another.

Napoleon grabbed Illya’s sleeve and they ran, hearing the noise fade behind them, lost under the sounds of their own rustling passage through the undergrowth.

The car sat, silent, facing to freedom, and Napoleon breathed again. When they reached the door he saw no sign of Lily. Illya leaned gasping against the side of the car. A rustle in the bushes drew both guns to train on the figure emerging from the darkness.

“Why, Little Red Riding Hood,” Napoleon said, lowering the rifle. “What a start you gave us.”

Lily ran to the car, wide-eyed. “ I can’t believe you did it.”

She got in the driver’s seat and started the car. Napoleon opened the back door, saw Illya staring at the girl, and gave him a push into the back seat. “Let’s go.”

Illya blinked, shook his head and got in. Napoleon closed the door and climbed into the front. He was barely in when Lily hit the gas. She left the headlights off for a nervewracking minute or so, then switched them on and accelerated down the curving dirt lane.

“I didn’t want to wait in the car,” she said, her voice high, breathy. “Too conspicuous.”

Napoleon grinned tiredly. “You’re learning.”

“I only need to be killed once,” she said. “Is Mr. Kuryakin all right?”

Napoleon twisted in his seat. “He’s either asleep or  ... ”  He stretched himself over the back of the seat to grab one of Illya’s wrists. “He’s asleep.”

“He slept like that the last time my uncle used the machine on him,” Lily said, and the anger coiled tighter in Napoleon’s chest.

“What exactly does this machine do?”

“I have no idea. I’m an English teacher. Or I will be if I ever get out of this. I never even saw the machine. I only heard my uncle talk about it. And I saw how Mr. Kuryakin looked the last time. I was almost more scared for him than for me.” She smiled nervously. “Almost. Maybe if I were a braver person I would have been. They wouldn’t even have run me into the lake if I hadn’t taken Mr. Kuryakin with me when I left. My uncle didn’t care about me. He needed Mr. Kuryakin to  ...  um, infiltrate your organization. As a double agent. Brainwashed.” She laughed again, shuddered. “Sorry. It sounds so silly. But it’s true.”

Napoleon said nothing, thinking about what was behind them. Dr. Xavier had to be stopped permanently. Right now Napoleon would gladly tear him apart personally. But once the doctor knew Illya’d escaped he’d probably pack up and leave, and UNCLE would have to find him all over again. Damn. If only he hadn’t lost his communicator.

The darkness pressed around them, surrounding the car, compressing the headlights so that it seemed they penetrated only a few feet into the night. The dirt road twisted and turned and dipped and rose as if having difficulty finding a way through the dense wood.  Napoleon felt keenly how far they were from civilization, how far from help.

Something darted out from the dark of the woods and Lily cried out, jerking the wheel. The car skidded sideways. Napoleon slid across the seat — then they hit something, hard, a solid shuddery bump. They lurched forward as the car slewed sideways and slammed into something else. Darkness fell like a hammer.

***

Mr. Waverly waited until Gen. Cooke had departed, then immediately dispatched agents to Clearlake, Vermont, knowing through long-honed instinct they’d be too late.

***

Alice stopped on the last of the porch steps. The others filed past her as she looked across the lake at the brick house. She thought, as she’d thought before — knowing it was stupid — that it stood too close, as if it were watching them. Square and respectable, sitting in judgment of them and the way they’d chosen to live. Miles away, yet somehow looming, leering.

Alice shook her head. Staring at her dusty brown feet, she reminded herself that she wasn’t ordinarily nervous, but that this wasn’t an ordinary summer. It probably had a lot more to do with what had happened to her the night she left New York.

“Alice.” Doug stopped behind her. “It’s almost time. Find Teddy and Mum, will you. They’re inside. They were out picking mushrooms and they found a car crash.”

“Oh my God,” Alice said.

“Nobody badly hurt,” Doug said, pushing long, chestnut-colored bangs out of his face. “They hit a deer, though. Killed it. A girl and a couple of guys. Knocked out. They brought ‘em back here. Mum’s working her healing magic on them now. We’ve got the solstice ceremony. Minerva’s not back from town yet, but she said to go ahead without her if we had to. If Mum’s patients are still out she can join us.”

Alice watched Doug join the others in the sacred circle on the lawn, then turned and reentered the cool shadowy house.

She hadn’t told anyone about what had happened. It had been so fast, so mysterious, so terrifying. She should have gone to the police when it was over. But she hadn’t. She’d run, here, and was trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. And she didn’t want to give it the weight of reality that talking about it would bring.

She trotted up the bare wooden steps to the third floor Mum used as her infirmary. Dust poofed up from the ancient paisley carpet as she walked along the corridor. The third door along was ajar. She poked her head in to see Teddy’s huge form, in blue jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, sprawled in a rocker.

“Is it time?” he said. Alice nodded and he got up.

Mum was sitting on the edge of a narrow brass bed, her back to the door. All Alice could see was a tumbling cascade of black curls and a flowery dress back. Mum turned around then, revealing the figure lying still on the bed.

Alice gasped as her heart and lungs cut off all communication for a second.

“What’s the matter?” Teddy asked, taking gentle hold of her arm. His hand surrounded her wrist as if it were a pencil.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You know this guy?” Teddy persisted. Alice clamped her mouth shut. Mum got up and came to join them.

“What happened?” Alice asked.

Teddy shrugged mountainously. “We were picking mushrooms down by the lake and there was a car there, where we usually cut across, you know?”

Alice nodded.

“They hit a deer and a tree. All out cold. Except the deer. It was dead.”

Alice looked at the man in the bed, fear burning in her throat. What in God’s name was going on?

“What’s the matter?” Teddy said.

“Nothing,” she insisted. “It’s time for the ceremony.” She trailed Mum and Teddy out the door, pausing there, glancing back. He looked like hell, somehow smaller than she remembered him. The last time she’d seen him had been at his apartment, slung unconscious between two thugs. Just before she’d run away.

Illya Kuryakin. What in the world had happened to him, and how could he possibly have ended up here?

“Come on,” Teddy called. She blinked and followed her friends downstairs.

***

Napoleon opened his eyes. Bright light blinded him. He snapped upright, reaching for his gun, and the light became simple golden sunlight streaming warmly through a break in some very tattered blue curtains with clowns on them.

He was in a small bare room in a rather rickety bed that moved when he moved. Jacket, holster and gun were not in evidence, but a killer headache definitely was.

He got up slowly, adding shoulder, neck and back to the things that ached. He found his shoes on the dusty wood floor beside the bed. One narrow window and one narrow door, long ago painted white. And — locked? He tried it. Unlocked but squeaky.

He peered out into a narrow corridor lined with a threadbare paisley runner and a few other doors. He felt the silence of the whole house around him as he went to the window. The third-floor vantage gave him a long view across a swath of untended lawn, trees and bushes over the lake to Dr. Xavier’s brick house.

That reminded Napoleon of the accident. Someone must’ve found them, brought them here.

He left to search for Illya and the girl. His memory, and his own physical state, suggested they ought not be badly hurt, but Illya was already injured, perhaps worse — and in any case they were still too close to Dr. Xavier’s domain for his peace of mind.

Napoleon methodically poked his nose into each room along the dim dusty corridor. Most looked unused. The fourth door along paid off with one blond secret agent, asleep, in a narrow brass bed. He sat on the milking stool beside the bed and reached out to wake his partner. Then stopped. Illya looked to be resting comfortably, and since they were neither dead nor in any way restrained, it was likely they weren’t in enemy hands.

Napoleon went to the window. Here, curtainless, it looked out on a flat grassy area ringed with a circle of head-sized stones and, within that, young people in flowing colorful clothes. He counted 12 — then realized one of them was Lily. He eased the window open as one of the boys began to play a guitar. A girl joined in with a tambourine; another girl with long blonde hair began to play a wooden flute. They all danced — a little, mostly an awkward side-to-side shuffling of feet — and began a chant, those unencumbered by instruments raising their hands to the skies.

“What in the world ... ” he muttered.

“What day is it?”

Illya’s voice at his shoulder made him start. Swallowing a curse he glared at his partner, standing pale and unsteady beside him.

“Wednesday,” Napoleon supplied.

Illya shook his head once. “I meant the date.”

“June 21. Why?”

“Solstice ceremony,” he said, inclining his head toward the chanting dancers.

“How do you know this stuff?” Napoleon wondered.

“We must be at the commune across the lake.”

“Commune?” Napoleon echoed. “We are across the lake, by the way. You can see Dr. Xavier’s house of horrors from here.” Napoleon looked his partner over, found himself smiling despite Illya’s wretched state. Seeing him alive made Napoleon feel, for a moment, invulnerable.

“What’s so funny?” Illya asked, glancing down at himself.

Napoleon shook his head. “Nothing. How do you feel?”

“Terrible.” He met his partner’s eyes. “But a little better. How did we get here?”

Napoleon turned, sitting on the window ledge. “I’m not sure. Don’t change the subject.”

“Is Lily all right?”

“She’s down there dancing with the heathen. Talk to me.”

Illya shook his head, gaze wandering. “Physically I’m all right.”

“Well, mentally you obviously aren’t, because physically you’re a mess.  Illya  ...  I know Dr. Xavier used his machine on you.”

Illya looked at his partner, expressionless. Then, with evident effort, he said, “Twice.”

Napoleon knew theoretically what the doctor’s machine could do. He hardly knew how to ask, but even if he didn’t already owe Illya honesty, the hard look on his partner’s face demanded it.

“Do you think  ...  are you all right?”

Illya shook his head. “I don’t know. I think so, but ... ” Anxiety pinched his eyes and tone.

“Well, the fact that you’re not sure is a good sign, right?” he asked.

“The only reason I have doubts is  ...  because I have no doubts,” Illya said.

“You’re confusing me.”

“Then welcome to the club.”

Napoleon examined his partner, unsure what he was looking for or if he’d know it to see it. Illya’s blue eyes held no guile; pain, yes, anxiety, but his partner’s gaze was open, open as it only was with him.

If anyone could know whether Illya Kuryakin had been irremediably altered — turned evil — Napoleon knew he was the one. His heart told him Illya would die before turning traitor to UNCLE. His brain even had some empirical evidence of it. The variable — the doubt — stemmed from the unique nature of Dr. Xavier’s machine.

Napoleon shook his head as his heart shouted down his brain’s cold calculations: There was no way Illya would turn traitor. No way.

_So much for logic._

“What are you thinking?” Illya asked.

“I’m thinking I’ll just behave as if you’re your old self until you prove me wrong.”

“I might ... ” Illya hesitated — uncharacteristic, that, and troubling — “I might be a danger to you.”

Napoleon grinned. “You always are, you crazy Russian.”

“Napoleon, you can’t ... ”

“Don’t ask me to mistrust you without cause,” Napoleon said in what he’d felt was a calm, reasonable tone. Illya held up both hands — bruised and scraped, Napoleon saw with a pang — in surrender.

“Whatever you say. You’re the senior agent.”

“Exactly. And as senior agent I suggest we defer this issue until we’re back home where we can pick your brains and see for certain whether they’ve been scrambled.”

Illya sighed. “Your delicacy of phrasing is much appreciated.” He knew Napoleon was right. He needed professional evaluation. His own belief wasn’t enough.

“You’ll need  ...  you may need to be on your guard,” he said with difficulty. “You might want to—”

“I’ll risk it, “ Napoleon said.

“Napoleon—”

“I’ll risk it,” the American snapped, adding in a more normal tone, “Besides — you and what army? I mean, look at you. You’re a wreck. You couldn’t do damage to a blancmange right now.”

Illya opened his mouth, closed it. He knew Napoleon was using those gruff insults to say something very different: _I trust you_. Right now that was a life preserver Illya needed too badly to refuse.

“All right then. What’s our next step?”

Napoleon looked out the window. “My car was probably wrecked by that moose we hit. We need a phone, for a start, then some transportation.”

“Where’s your communicator?”

“I lost it pulling your friend Lily out of the lake.”

“Ah. That’s how that happened. I’m glad you came along when you did. She was only trying to help me.” He leaned on the window casement. “You said she’s down there?”

“Dancing with the other elves,” Napoleon said. “What are the odds these kids have a phone?”

“They don’t,” Illya informed him — then gave him a puzzled look. “How did you find me?”

Napoleon opened his mouth, snapped it shut again.

“Auto club,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go find us a mule or a bicycle or something.”

They descended to the ground floor of the great gloomy house, passing numerous indications of the counterculture philosophy of the residents: Posters, guitars, bongos, beads and bongs, beanbag chairs, blacklights and brass censers. The heavy scents of sandalwood and marijuana tinted the air.

“Hippies,” Napoleon said, looking around the huge, colorfully cluttered living room.

On the porch they paused.

“There’s Lily,” Napoleon said, pointing. “By the blonde. See?”

Illya looked — then, though he was already still, some change in the quality of his stillness made Napoleon touch his arm in concern.

“What is it?”

“Alice,” Illya said. He leaned on the porch railing, grasping it for support as Napoleon’s fingers wrapped firmly around his other arm.

“She lived with her grandmother, Mrs. Blankenship,” Illya said calmly. “Three doors down. She came to my door in the middle of the night.”

“That night?” Napoleon asked. Illya nodded. Napoleon gave the girl a hard look. Pretty, tallish, serious looking in wire granny glasses, in a loose gauzy blue dress that revealed long, tanned legs and arms.

“I remember now. She asked for help. I opened the door and two men appeared on either side of her. One of them shot me. Sleep dart.”

“And now she’s here?” Napoleon said, starting down the steps toward her.

The music stumbled to a halt and the group came together for a hug, then broke up, laughing. They started en masse for the house — and stopped, en masse, to see the UNCLE agents.

Lily grabbed a hulking bald young man and dragged him over to them.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said. “This is Teddy. He’s the one I met in town before. Remember I mentioned him?” she said to Illya. “Teddy, this is Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya nodded, headed for Alice.

“He’s not very sociable when he’s half dead,” Napoleon apologized. He watched Illya approach Alice, now standing talking to a boy with long brown hair.

“Lily says you guys are secret agents,” Teddy said.

“Not very, apparently,” Napoleon said.

 

Alice waited for him, white-faced. When he got close, she held out her hands as if she thought he might attack her.

“Illya  ...  I swear to God. They made me do it. I didn’t know who they were or what was happening. They grabbed me coming home that night and  ... ” She gulped down a breath.

“And yet here you are, safe and sound,” Illya said. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the boy who was with her stepped closer protectively. Illya looked at him measuringly and the boy flushed.

“I ran away,” Alice went on. She was shaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. They had guns. They said they’d kill me and my grandmother if I didn’t do what they said. When they  ...  when they shot you  ...  I just ran. I didn’t even stop to tell my grandmother. She must think  ...  I don’t know.” She took in another breath, clearly not seeing what she wanted to see in Illya’s face. “I know I should have gone to the police. I was too scared. Then I thought  ...  they wouldn’t even believe me. I got on a bus. Then I hitchhiked up here.” Tears ran down her face. The boy beside her took hold of her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Illya rubbed the bridge of his nose; a tightness above his eyes presaged a headache. “Do you people have a car here, or a telephone?” Lily had said they didn’t, but he wanted to be sure.

Alice stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether she’d been forgiven or merely dismissed.

Doug said, “No phone. Minerva’s taken the truck into town. She’ll be back soon. I’m Doug, by the way, and I think you should believe Alice. She’s a really cool person and very honest.”

“Lily told us you and your friend are secret agents. From UNCLE,” Alice said. “Is that ... is that why that happened? Why they shot you?”

“Actually I was just late paying my electric bill,” he said coolly.

Alice flushed, taking the hint — at least partly. “How did you get up here, of all places?”

“How did you?” he replied.

“I come here every summer. For three years, anyway. When I ran away  ...  I thought I’d be safe here. Is my grandma OK?”

“I have no idea,” Illya said tiredly. “I’ve been a houseguest of your friendly neighborhood mad scientist—” He indicated the house across the lake— “for the past few days.”

Alice and Doug looked at Dr. Xavier’s house.

“Oh my God,” Alice said. “You’ve been here? I mean, there? The whole time? Why?”

Illya sighed. “Because he wants to take over the world, of course. Isn’t that what all mad scientists want?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know  ...  what to think. I had  ...  I had this image in my mind of you, I guess ... ” she blushed.

“And it didn’t include guns and mad scientists?” he concluded for her.

“My grandma really likes you. She always says ‘such a nice, polite young man. Quiet, scholarly, good manners. You can tell he was well brought up, not like kids today.’“ Alice did a pretty good imitation of Mrs. Blankenship’s thin, shaky voice.

“She thinks you need a haircut, of course, but she thinks every male under the age of 60 needs one, and she doesn’t hold it against you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell her what I do for a living,” he said. “Better for her own peace of mind, among other things.”

She nodded. “I see what you mean  ...  boy, did I ever have the wrong idea about you.”

He rubbed his temples. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No. It’s the other way around. I mean, I thought you were interesting, but  ... ”

“In a boring way?” he said.

“Not any more,” she replied seriously.

“Hey,” Doug said. “Does anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”

***

“ ... and Mum patched you guys up,” Teddy finished explaining. Napoleon looked at his watch. It was a little after noon.

“And where is Mum?” he asked. All the other residents had scattered.

Teddy scanned the yard. “Donno. She might be washing your clothes and stuff. She was gonna do it before, but we had the ritual.”

“Ah yes, your solstice rite,” Napoleon said, watching Illya limp toward him, trailed by Alice and the other boy.

“Wow,” Teddy said, blue eyes wide. “You know about that, man?”

Napoleon shrugged. “Well, it is June 21.”

“Wow,” Teddy said again. “That’s pretty cool.”

To Lily, Napoleon said, “You looked quite at home out there.”

She flushed. “I woke up and came out while they were getting ready. I was talking to some of the kids and  ...  it seemed like a fun idea at the time.” Her blush deepened.

“I’m all for propitiating any gods who might need it,” Napoleon said. “That done, however, we need to get a little farther away from your uncle and a lot closer to mine.”

 

“The house belongs to Minerva,” Doug said as they followed Illya to the house. “She inherited it. Then she opened it up for people who wanted to try a life without  ... ”

“Without modern conveniences?” Illya said, thinking of Russia. He knew many who lived the bucolic life and would trade a limb for a washing machine or a tractor. He’d willingly trade his throbbing head, at the moment, for a telephone.

“And modern philosophy,” Doug said, touchy.

“I’m not attacking your lifestyle,” Illya said. “Live and let live, that’s my philosophy.”

“That explains the guns,” Doug countered.

“Don’t—” Alice censured him as they climbed back onto the porch.

“What guns?” Napoleon said, overhearing.

Teddy said, “We left them in the car. We don’t have anything to do with that kind of thing here.”

“Good,” Illya said. His head was spinning.

Napoleon took his arm. “Okay, old chum. Back to bed for you. We’ve got a while to wait for the next bus back to civilization.”

“Are you a doctor?” Doug asked.

Napoleon blinked in surprise at the question. Illya said:

“Let’s just say he’s seen me pass out before.” He let his partner half carry him back into the house and up the stairs to the tiny room he’d been assigned. Illya lay down immediately, without even a sigh of disgust, and Napoleon’s gut clenched.

“Napoleon.”

“What now?”

“Dr. Xavier had to know I was gone within minutes,” he said quietly. “He may have found your car.”

“Yes,” Napoleon said, covering his partner with a hideous quilt. “The idea had occured. Rest.”

“They might be here at any minute,” Illya persisted. “You should get out while you can. Get to Clearlake and call for help.”

“What, on foot?”

“Better than being caught here.”

“Are you going to be quiet and rest or do I have to have nurse sedate you?”

“Na—”

“Illya,” Napoleon said patiently, “Shut up. You’re delirious.”

Illya blinked, and his eyes only reopened halfway. “I’m not delirious. I—”

“Shut up anyway. Rest. That’s an order. I’ll be close by.”

Napoleon turned around and saw a girl standing in the doorway, looking at him with a smile like a newly opened rose. Her hair was a mass of black curls; large grey eyes darted briefly in Illya’s direction, then returned to Napoleon, whom she beckoned out of the room with one curled forefinger.

Outside the room she took his hand, hers light, cool, barely there in his palm, and led him back downstairs in a silence that seemed too comfortable to immediately break.

She led him back onto the porch where Alice, Doug and Lily stood talking. They opened their circle to include the newcomers.

Napoleon began, “Ah, this young lady brought me back down here, no doubt for some nefarious purpose.”

He smiled at her and she returned it, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“That’s Mum,” Doug said. “She and Teddy found you.”

“Aha — you’re Mum,” Napoleon said, unable to keep from grinning. “That explains your silence.”

“No it doesn’t,” she said. “It’s short for Chrysanthemum.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “I know when I’ve been had.”

“How is Illya?” Alice asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, smile erased. “I need to get him back to HQ so the doctors there can take care of him.”

“Lily said her uncle is an evil man. She said he was holding your friend hostage.”

“Sort of.”

“She also said he has a batch of men with guns and that they might come here looking for you guys.”

“That is possible. We hope to get away before that happens, but I’m afraid my friend is in no condition to walk to the nearest town unless it happens to be in your back yard.”

“There’re phones in Clearlake,” Alice said. “But it’s an hour away.”

“We’ll just have to wait for your hostess,” Napoleon said. “Minerva, you said?”

“Yes. She should be back soon.”

Alice came up close.

“Mr  ...  I don’t even know your name.”

“Call me Napoleon,” he said, thinking in passing that if Illya hadn’t asked this lovely girl out yet, he was out of his mind. Or just Illya.

“Napoleon,” she said. “I swear I was forced to  ...  to do what I did. Illya doesn’t believe me. I feel terrible. He must think I’m some kind of horrible  ...  Mata Hari or something.”

“Are you?” Napoleon asked.

“I’m a grad student in anthropology,” she said. “I hate to think he believes I  ...  did that on purpose.” Her eyes filled, and she slid her fingers under her glasses to wipe them. “I’m sorry. I really feel bad about this. I swear I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“Never mind. Illya’s pretty forgiving about this sort of thing. It happens to us a lot. You get used to it.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she exclaimed. “Not willingly. They said they’d kill me and my grandma.”

“Then you’re lucky,” he said drily. “THRUSH usually follows through on its threats.”

Her face fell. “I know I should have gone to the police. I was scared.”

“I can understand that,” Lily said with feeling.

“So can I,” Napoleon put in. “Don’t worry, Alice. Illya’s an odd sort, but rumor has it he’s human. Just hold his hand and gaze at him with those gorgeous eyes. He’ll forgive you for things you haven’t even done yet.”

Her blush deepened.

“We were talking about this,” Doug said. “You know, we’re pacifists.”

Napoleon smiled. “Me too.”

Doug was not amused. “I mean it. We believe most of the world’s problems could be solved if we loved one another instead of attacking everyone who’s different.”

“I agree,” Napoleon agreed.

“You’re a spy,” Lily said. “You carry a gun.”

“So does Illya,” Alice said. “I’ve seen it.”

“And you use them,” Doug concluded the condemnation with, Napoleon thought, all the smug superiority of someone who’d never been shot at.

“Well,” he said mildly, “in our defense, I may say we never start the fights. And in my experience, the men — or women — who’re shooting at me never seem persuaded by my rhetoric to stop shooting and simply—” he smiled— “love me.”

“We’ve heard of UNCLE,” Doug said. “But we don’t support the use of violence as a means to even a good end.”

Napoleon sighed. “And your point would be?”

“The violent have no patience for nonviolence,” Doug said. “You’d never even consider doing things our way.”

Mum, unexpectedly, laid a hand on his arm and said to her friends:

“You’re wrong. He’s a good man.”

All of them — Napoleon included — looked at her in surprise. Teddy came out of the house, stopped to stare.

“He’s a killer for hire,” Doug said.

“Doug—” Alice hissed.

“He’s a good man with a good heart,” Mum said, making Napoleon uncomfortable and not a little mystified.

“How do you know?” Lily asked, not arguing, just curious.

“Violent people don’t know anything about peace, or love,” Teddy said. Mum shook her head. Her gaze caught, held Napoleon’s. Quietly she said, “I saw you. I heard you.”

Napoleon scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

She pointed up at the house, and Napoleon realized what she meant.

“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Well ... ”

“You’re full of love,” Mum said. “But you don’t show it. Except sometimes, like that, when you can’t help it, or when you think no one is looking.”

Acutely uncomfortable, Napoleon said, “Yes, well, he is my partner and all. You know, you get kind of used to having someone around.”

She smiled and squeezed his arm, mercifully letting him off the hook, saying to her friends:

“They’re both good people. If we really believe what we say we believe, should we shun them just because they’ve chosen a path different from ours?”

“All I need is transportation to town,” Napoleon put in. “Believe me, I don’t want to involve you all in any kind of trouble.”

Teddy and Doug exchanged a look.

“Mum’s always right,” Teddy said. Napoleon got the impression that Teddy wasn’t very bright, but Doug nodded and said to Napoleon:

“Okay. We won’t get involved in any violence, but we’ll help if we can.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon said sincerely.

 

Napoleon sat in the window where he could see the road. Mum stood beside him, looking out, while Napoleon tried to decide if he had ever seen a lovelier girl. She had a certain wild, elfin quality far removed from his usual tastes, but here it seemed fitting.

“You two are spies,” she said. “Lily said your friend was kidnapped and you came to rescue him.”

“It sounds so simple put like that,” Napoleon said, thinking back on a week he wouldn’t relive for a million dollars — although he’d go through it all again a thousandfold if that was what it took to see his partner safe.

“Do you believe that what you do—” she gestured at Illya— “the guns and the bombs and the fighting and the deceit  ...  do you believe it will make the world a better place?”

Napoleon smiled. “No. Personally, I do it for the money.”

She had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Sorry. I don’t mean to attack you. We just  ...  we all wish there was some way for people to live in peace.”

“So do we,” Napoleon said with feeling.

“And we feel your methods, which have been tried for centuries, haven’t worked.”

Napoleon massaged his forehead. “Please don’t make me question my value in this world just now. I really don’t have the energy.”

She laughed. “I think your friend would defend your value. And if we have friends who love us, isn’t that enough?”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

She came to him, laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead, then departed, leaving Napoleon feeling as though he’d received some sort of benediction.

***

Sick, he clutched the machine gun hard to his body. His finger, like a stranger’s — an enemy’s — squeezed the trigger and the gun bucked, straining, the heat and stink of it washing over him. He thought the gun would explode; holding down the trigger, sweat and tears burning down his face, he prayed for it, wished for it fiercely, anything to stop what he couldn’t stop himself. The noise of the gun battered his ears.

 And Napoleon hung there before his horrified, helpless gaze, torn and bloodied, the stream of bullets hammering his body into a grotesque dancing puppet. And he would not die. And his eyes never left Illya’s.

He realized he was screaming, one word, over and over: _No!_

 

Illya sat up with a shout — “No!” — eyes wide, stunned, and Napoleon caught him, felt the rigid shoulders go limp under his hands as Illya came fully awake.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe. We both are, for the moment.”

Illya stared gasping at his partner for a few heartbeats, then threw back the blankets. Napoleon let go of him so he could sit on the edge of the bed, throbbing head in his hands. “How long was I asleep?”

“About 20 minutes. We’re still waiting for our ride.” Napoleon waited a moment, said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. On the other hand, we seem to have a little down time, and it might help.”

Illya got up carefully — his muscles felt like bungee cords — and limped to the window to sit. He faced his partner, opened his mouth.

“What?”

Illya closed his mouth, eyes roving as if searching the room for something. “I don’t think I can talk about it.”

“What do you mean?” Napoleon got up, came closer, jolted by his partner’s agitation.

“I  ...  I know what happened.” He scowled fiercely. “I can’t say it.”

“You mean  ...  could it be part of the process?”

Illya opened his mouth again, closed it, shook his head. Then, finally, he said, “Ask me questions.”

Napoleon said, “Where were you?”

Illay’s eyes narrowed as he tried to respond, to force out the truth. After a moment he blurted, “I don’t know.”

“Were you a prisoner?”

Illya stiffened, shook his head, again said, “I don’t know.”

“Did Dr. Xavier kidnap you?” Napoleon snapped. Illya winced, tried to answer. He clenched his teeth, shook his head, looking at his partner as if for help.

“Napoleon ... ” The plea trailed off into Russian curses.

Tempted to say ‘Don’t panic’ — realizing Illya didn’t need to hear stupid platitudes — Napoleon swallowed his own alarm and said:

“If it’s any comfort, your lies aren’t very convincing. You usually lie flawlessly. And you obviously _can_ talk about it, just not  ...  specifically. Probably because the process wasn’t completed.”

Illya looked up at his partner, calmer. “It’s somehow small comfort to know I’m only half brainwashed.”

Napoleon smiled. If Illya could joke, there was still hope.

“It’s a good thing I pulled Lily out of the lake, for more than the obvious reasons.”

“Yes,” Illya mused. “If she hadn’t told you you might never have found out. But  ...  what are you doing in Vermont? How did you know where to look?”

Napoleon grimaced. “I’d prefer not to answer that question on the grounds that you’ll think I’m insane.”

Illya’s brow rose. “I’m hardly in a position to pass judgment on anyone else’s sanity.” All humor, all the usual defenses, left his expression, wiping years — a few too many, in Napoleon’s concerned estimation — from his face. “I’m glad you found me, however you did it.”

“So am I. Breaking in new partners is so time-consuming.”

Illya looked out the window. “A car’s coming.”

Napoleon was beside him in a moment.

A battered red pickup clattered out of the trees, rolling to a shaky halt in the yard. A few kids gathered around it, talking, and a brunette in blue jeans and a white sweater climbed out.

“Get everyone together,” she shouted. Her tone was brusque, almost anxious, and the agents looked at one another.

“Where is Lily?” Illya asked.

“Downstairs comparing notes with Alice,” Napoleon said.

“Notes?” Illya echoed.

Minerva, surrounded by her tenants — Lily and Alice excepted — threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, up the road, and Napoleon’s insides tightened.

“Oh boy. I think this Minerva has sold us out.”

“Minerva,” Illya said, his tone calling himself a fool. “Dr. Xavier’s accomplice from Bogota.” He looked hard at his puzzled partner. “Minerva. Athene.”

“If you say so.”

Illya hauled himself to his feet; Napoleon grabbed him as he swayed. Everyone below was chattering in anxious puzzlement. Minerva again glanced up the road, then spread her arms, herding the kids toward the house.

“I think we need to leave now,” Napoleon said, pulling his partner’s arm over his shoulders.

The sound of many bare feet thudding across the porch was drowned out by the roar of an engine. A black paneled truck roared up to the porch and ground to a halt. The back of the van opened and THRUSH uniforms poured out, rifles at the ready.

“Okay, the stairs are a no-go,” Napoleon said. “The roof?”

Illya looked out. “Not with this leg. And this hangover. You go.” Heavy booted feet clomped up the porch steps and into the house.

“Wrong answer.” Napoleon started to bodily shove Illya out the window, but they both saw it wouldn’t work. The roof was steeply pitched; it would take strength and balance the Russian did not currently possess.

“Go,” Illya snapped. “He doesn’t want me dead, remember? But they might kill you.”

“Might?” Napoleon interjected.

“Go. If you’re free we’ve got a chance.”

More shouts and pounding carried to them from the corridor, coming rapidly nearer.

Illya shoved Napoleon. Cursing, he grabbed the casement and swung himself out onto the roof, ignoring the pain from his injured shoulder, pivoting to the side to get out of sight. He crouched there, hanging onto the gable, taut as a bowstring, listening as the door inside slammed open.

“There he is!” a man snarled. “Take him.”

Napoleon clenched every muscle in his body, forcing himself to stillness at the sounds of the brief scuffle that ensued.

“Tell Dr. Xavier we’ve got him,” a man said. “See if he wants us to take care of the others.” The men marched out.

_The others_. Napleon slid down the roof to a convenient tree branch, then climbed into the midst of its foliage and reconnoitred.

The truck, van and yard were empty. He could hear voices inside the house. He swung to the ground and ducked around the corner of the porch to crouch in the bushes.

A man and a woman — Minerva — came out of the house and off the porch. The man had his back to Napoleon, but the agent supposed him to be Dr. Xavier.

***

“Hang on, hang on!” Doug shouted over the gabble of voices. “Let me find the light.” He felt his way along the cellar wall to the foot of the steps and hit the switch. One bare bulb flickered to life, illuminating the brick walls and floor of the basement, lined with cans and sacks and boxes and bottles. In the middle the other residents of the house huddled together. All eyes turned to the light, then to Doug.

“Everyone be quiet,” he called out. Silence spread as he trotted up the stairs. The door was locked. He descended.

“What’s going on?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Did Minerva say anything?”

Lily and Alice quietly prowled the walls. The narrow windows were nailed shut.

Lily sat on a crate of canned soup. “I hope Napoleon and Illya got away,” she said.

“You think this has something to do with them?” Alice asked.

“I think it has everything to do with them. And with my uncle. We need to get out of here.”

Alice went to a window. “This one’s at the back of the house. They may not notice.”

The others, seeing their intent, crowded around; Lily stood between Alice and the group.

“Listen,” she began. “I think I know what’s going on. Minerva has locked us all in here to keep us out of the way while she turns those two UNCLE agents over to  ...  to a very evil man.”

Voices rose in a chorus of disbelief.

“Listen! I know you all thought Minerva was your friend. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s being threatened or something. But listen—” She raised her voice as the group began to babble again.

“Listen to her!” Doug shouted. He ploughed through them to stand beside her. Alice, standing on a crate holding a hammer, watched them.

“I’m going to sneak out,” Lily said. “I don’t think you should follow me. If  ...  if they find out you aren’t still in here there’s no telling what they might do to you. Just wait. Probably when they’ve taken the UNCLE agents away, Minerva will just let you out.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Alice asked quietly. Her faith in just about everyone and eveyrthing had been dealt a severe blow.

“Then you all can get out this way too. But they’re bound to notice a dozen people running off into the woods. Wait. If you have to run away, do it, but be careful.”

Doug asked, “Where are you going?”

Lily, climbing onto the box beside Alice, glanced back at him. “My uncle already tried to kill me once. I’m not staying where he can find me.”

“There’s no one around,” Alice said, and started prying up the nails.

“Here—” Doug jumped up. “Let me.”

“I’ll try to get some help,” Lily said as Doug unsealed the window. He opened it and gave her a boost. She slithered out onto the grass, heart racing, and ducked behind some bushes.

***

“Thank you for your help, Minerva,” Dr. Xavier said. “I didn’t like to let Kuryakin go until I was sure his  ...  reprogramming was complete.”

Minerva smiled. “You’ve always been very generous to me, Francis. I’m happy to repay the favor. Although it is a trifle inconvenient.” She looked back into the house.

“Ah yes. Your guests,” Dr. Xavier said. “Most regrettable.”

Napoleon tensed. Those words had the familiar ring of cold-blooded murder.

“I have a gas,” the doctor went on. “No telltale bullet holes.”

“The cellar windows are sealed,” Minerva said helpfully.

“Excellent.”

Two columns of THRUSH men marched out of the house, past Dr. Xavier and Minerva and down the steps to the van. Napoleon, seeing Illya borne limply between two hulking THRUSH men, quickly whistled a brief birdcall, an old signal, and had the satisfaction of seeing the blond head rise fractionally. The THRUSHes opened the van and bundled him inside, getting in after him. Napoleon counted 10 of them.

A grey sedan pulled sedately up to the house. Four men were in it.

Astonished, Napoleon recognized the man in the front passenger seat as Lt. White.

The quartet of army men climbed out of the car. Dr. Xavier and Minerva came down the steps while Napoleon, agonized, pictured the THRUSH men bursting from the van, guns blazing. To warn the army men, though, risked his liberty and chance of helping Illya and the hippies.

Dr. Xavier took a step toward the van and Napoleon decided. He bellowed:

“Lieutenant! Look out! Get under cover!”

The army men froze into alert crouches, drawing their sidearms. At the same moment, however, the van doors opened and the THRUSH gang surged out, rifles trained on Lt. White and his men. The army men dropped their guns.

Napoleon cursed and darted around the back of the house in case someone got it into his head to find out who’d shouted. He had no doubt Dr. Xavier would kill the army men as easily as the hippies. If he left no witnesses, there would be no one to reveal what he’d done to Illya. Napoleon’s partner would be a perfect Judas goat.

Around the back corner of the house Napoleon bumped into Lily, who almost screamed.

“What are you doing?” Napoleon whispered as she slapped her hand over her mouth.

“She put everyone in the basement. I sneaked out a window. Are they  ...  is my uncle going to kill them?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “Go back. Get them out. Tell them to hide in the woods.” His mind raced, desperate to find some way one unarmed man might turn the tables on 10 armed THRUSH agents. “Go.”

She ran back to a basement window and crouched down. Napoleon slipped onto the back porch and into the house. He hurried through, wishing it were the home of a sportsman rather than a bunch of antiestablishment pacifists. He slipped behind the open front door, just able to see between the door and the jamb.

Dr. Xavier said, “Bring him to me.”

Lt. White was escorted before the doctor and Minerva, one rifleman at his back. The other THRUSH agents remained in a semicircle around White’s colleagues.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Dr. Xavier asked. Lt. White said nothing.

Dr. Xavier called out, “Kill one of them. I don’t care which.”

Napoleon tensed a second before the shot cracked the quiet.

Lt. White started forward with a shout, but the THRUSH behind him brought the butt of his rifle around and hammered him to the ground.

“If any of you move he dies,” Dr. Xavier said to White’s men. To the lieutenant, he said, “Get up.”

White struggled to his feet, rumpled and glaring.

“Answer my questions.”

Lt. White stared at him.

_Talk, you fool_ , Napoleon thought at Lt. White. _Make something up. Stall for time_. But White had no experience with this kind of situation. He and all his men were going to die because of that.

Napoleon darted around the door and stepped onto the porch. “I’ll tell you.”

All heads snapped around.

“Solo,” Lt. White exclaimed in a kind of angry satisfaction. Dr. Xavier glanced at the lieutenant, then back to Napoleon.

“Solo,” he echoed. “Napoleon Solo?”

“So you’ve heard of me,” Napoleon said.

“Indeed yes. I confess I’m surprised to see you here. How did you track us?”

Napoleon smiled. “Crystal ball.”

“Solo  ... ” Lt. White snarled.

“You won’t get away with this, you know,” Napoleon said, overriding the lieutenant. “Reinforcements are on their way even as we speak. You’d be wise to surrender.” He glanced toward the nine THRUSH men still holding their rifles on the two remaining army men. One body lay sprawled supine between them.

“Really, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Xavier said, waving at his men. Two of them turned their weapons on Napoleon. “Do they make you memorize those sorts of ridiculous lines in spy school?”

Napoleon started to answer — stopped, galvanized at the sight of Illya climbing unsteadily out of the van to stand like a newborn foal in the sunlight.

“Ah,” Dr. Xavier heartily. “Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon watched as Illya took in the scene with no apparent understanding. His eyes touched Napoleon’s for a moment.

“Your associate, Mr. Solo, has come a long way to rescue you,” Dr. Xavier said. Illya turned his gaze to the doctor. “What a shame that an  ...  accident should have befallen him.” He beckoned one of the THRUSH men to him, took his rifle, and — to the startlement of everyone — handed it to Illya. In his state it nearly knocked him over.

“Kill him,” Dr. Xavier said.

Illya stared at the doctor.

“Do as I say,” Dr. Xavier said. “Kill Solo.”

Slowly, shakily, Illya raised the heavy THRUSH rifle, his eyes fixing on Napoleon, who didn’t move. He saw the tension in every line of his partner’s body and face, saw the sweat beading on his forehead, saw his jaw and hands clench as he lifted the weapon and took aim.

“Traitor—” Lt. White hissed. Suddenly rigid, Illya squeezed the trigger. The rifle coughed, bucked; Napoleon spun to the porch floor.

“You son of bitch—” Lt. White growled.

Illya dropped the rifle. His arms dangled for a heartbeat. Then he crumpled onto the grass.

“Excellent,” Dr. Xavier said. “Put Mr. Kuryakin and the lieutenant into the van. Take the other two and lock them in the cellar with the children.”

He leaned into the van for a moment and came out with a small, pearshaped plastic object. “Throw this in after them and make sure the door is locked. Hurry.”

 

Lily, hand between her teeth to stifle both screams and sobs, watched the riflemen lift Illya and dump him in the back of the van. The army lieutenant was urged at gunpoint to get in after. Meanwhile the other two army men were marched past Napoleon’s body and into the house. Lily wiped at her streaming eyes.

After a few minutes the THRUSH men came back out of the house. Everyone piled into the van and it pulled away.

Lily crept up onto the porch, still crying, and knelt gingerly beside Napoleon’s body. He lay sprawled on his back. She touched his face and his eyes popped open.

She shrieked.

“Are they gone?” he asked, sitting up.

“Oh my God.” She hugged him. “You’re alive.”

He smiled. “Perceptive child.” He got up. “We’d better see if Lt. White’s men are alive. Did you tell the others to get out?”

“Oh  ...  yes. They all ran into the woods.”

They went inside. Lily caught at his arm.

“Illya  ...  didn’t kill you.”

“Apparently not.” Napoleon went to the cellar door and unlocked it. “Stand back. There may be dangerous fumes.”

“Did  ...  did he miss?”

“Hm? Illya? No. Illya doesn’t miss.” He inched the door open. Nothing. He opened it wider. Darkness. Silence.

“The light’s there,” Lily said, pointing. Napoleon switched it on. Two men lay on the floor at the foot of the steps. Napoleon trotted down, checked both men, came back up.

“Are they dead?” Lily whispered.

Napoleon nodded. She started to cry again. He put an arm around her and led her out of the house.

“Don’t. You saved my partner and all those kids.”

She shook her head. “But  ...  my uncle killed those men. And that lieutenant and Mr. Kuryakin  ...  he has them. It’s just all so horrible.”

Napoleon collected the abandoned army handguns and went to Lt. White’s car, beckoning Lily.

“Listen to me. Take Minerva’s truck into Clearlake and go to the police. Tell them to contact UNCLE in New York. Tell them everything. Tell them anything to get them out here. All right?”

She gulped, nodded. “You’re going after them? By yourself?”

Napoleon opened the door of the sedan, tossed the handguns on the seat. “I’m all I’ve got.”

“No you aren’t,” came a voice from behind him. Doug, Teddy, Alice, Mum and the other kids were trailing out of the trees.

Napoleon shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d rather fight a thousand pacifists than have one on my side.”

They stared at him, puzzled. He sighed.

“Just get yourselves to safety and get the authorities out to Xavier’s house.”

“Be careful,” Mum said. Lily grabbed him impulsively and kissed him.

Napoleon got into the car, said again to Doug, “Get these kids somewhere safe.”

Doug nodded. “Good luck.”

***

Illya came to on the floor of the van. He blinked at the ceiling, then dragged his limp aching body into a sitting position. About 10 THRUSH men sat on the benches lining the truck’s sides. He lay on the floor beside a scowling man whose uniform proclaimed him to be a lieutenant in the U.S. Army.

His greatest concern at the moment was whether he had in fact missed Napoleon as he had intended. His partner’s fall told him nothing; Napoleon was smart enough to know when to play dead. But Illya had been concerned about making the shot look good — he wasn’t sure his current eyesight and hand steadiness were equal to the task. It had taken a surprising effort of will to combat Dr. Xavier’s order, but Illya had done it. He had no fear, at the moment, that he was under Dr. Xavier’s thrall.

_But if he puts me in the machine again, all bets are off._

“Who are you, lieutenant?” he asked.

“I’m a man who just saw one of his own shot in cold blood because of you, Kuryakin,” Lt. White snarled.

Illya scowled. “Because of me? You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve been incommunicado for a few days. Would you mind—” the van thumped through a pothole, tossing everyone a few inches into the air to a chorus of shouts and curses.

Dr. Xavier, in front with Minerva driving, glanced back.

“Sorry, men, it’s a rough road.”

THRUSHes muttered as they readjusted themselves.

Illya, spotting what looked like a grenade rolling around under one of the benches, shifted around to get his foot atop it.

“You — keep still,” a THRUSH said.

“It’s my leg,” Illya said. “I can’t feel anything.” He straightened the injured limb laboriously, then used his hands to pull it toward him, dragging the grenade — _I hope it’s a grenade_ — up close.

“As I was saying,” he went on, hoping those THRUSHes who were paying attention might attend to his words rather than his hands, now relaxed at his sides. “Would you mind explaining, lieutenant?”

“You’re a traitor. We hunted you down.” The lieutenant turned his anger, for a moment, upon himself. “And failed. It’s simple.”

“Traitor?” Illya echoed. “To ..?”

“Don’t deny it,” Lt. White snapped. “I recognize Dr. Xavier. Went over to his side to win the secret of his machine for your Communist friends, didn’t you?”

Illya stared at him for a moment — was that what UNCLE thought? That he’d betrayed them for the Soviets? Was that why Napoleon had come alone, without backup?

“Bastard,” Lt.White went on. “I watched you kill your own partner.”

Illya looked away. What was the military doing involved in this? Was it because of Dr. Xavier’s machine, or because the government somehow believed he was some sort of Soviet double agent?

“Solo believed in you,” Lt. White said, low and acid. “He trusted you. We knew you were a traitor, but he didn’t buy it. See what his loyalty got him.” He looked Illya up and down contemptuously. “Murdered by his own goddamned partner.”

“Shut up,” Illya snapped without thought. He turned away, sliding the grenade up his sleeve.

“I’m glad you two are getting acquainted,” Dr. Xavier said, twisting to look at them. “After all, you’re going to be colleagues, of a sort.”

“I don’t want anything to do with this commie son of a bitch,” Lt.White growled. “Just kill me if you’re going to.”

“Oh no, lieutenant. I have much better uses for you. In fact, once you’ve been  ...  conditioned, like Mr. Kuryakin here, I’ll release the both of you.” He smiled. “UNCLE and the military. Delightful.”

Lt. White looked at Illya as the THRUSH men laughed.

“You’ve betrayed everyone,” he accused. “I’d like to kill you myself.”

“You and what army?” Illya muttered without interest.

“Get in line, army punk,” said a THRUSH, to the accompaniment of approval from his peers. He pointed his rifle at Illya’s head. “This UNCLE son of a bitch has caused us more trouble than your whole damn’ branch of the military. We’d all like to get a whack at him.”

“Most of you have,” Illya said, shifting uncomfortably — and, not coincidentally, moving his head a little out of the direct line of fire. The THRUSH man’s finger was on the trigger, and if they hit another bump, all Dr. Xavier’s grandiose plans and his own more modest hopes would be for naught.

The van pulled off the road and onto the drive to the house.

“You’ve been very useful, my dear,” Dr. Xavier said to Minerva. “I’m sure THRUSH will wish to reward you.  I must report in immediately.”

“How will you explain Kuryakin’s killing his partner?” Lt. White snapped.

Illya was preoccupied with trying to gently adjust the little grenade to where he could drop it instantly into his fingers. He’d only have a moment, and his hands were unsteady.

“You can’t,” the lieutenant went on. “Killing his own partner proves he’s a traitor. He’s no use to you now.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” Dr. Xavier said. “There were no witnesses.”

“No witnesses?” Lt. White exclaimed, then stopped.

“Exactly,” Dr. Xavier said. “Your men, and those sweet little flower children, are dead, victims of a little gas grenade I helped design, and with no way to determine the cause of death. The grenade itself is made of a special polymer that dissolves once the gas is released. A tragic mystery.”

Illya, jolted to think of all those harmless kids killed, stopped his manipulations for a moment as anger tightened his body.

“I’m a witness,” Lt. White said. “And you can be damn sure I’ll tell UNCLE what this  ...  Russian did. And those butchers.” He nodded at the THRUSH men.

_Shut up, shut up_ , Illya thought as the THRUSH men grumbled. _Don’t antagonize them._ He’d need a moment of inattention from the guards if this little scheme was to work.

“You won’t be telling anyone anything I don’t instruct you to tell,” Dr. Xavier said. “If you doubt my words, remember Mr. Kuryakin here. A loyal UNCLE agent of many years’ standing who, just now, on my order, killed his partner.”

Illya flinched inwardly. He wished people would stop saying that so confidently.

“He was always a traitor,” Lt. White sneered.

Illya said, “Have we met, lieutenant? I get the impression you believe you know all about me.”

But the lieutenant met his icy gaze steadily. “I know what I saw.”

Cheerfully, Dr. Xavier said, “Not for long. Ah. Here we are.”

The van slowed and stopped in front of the house.

“Unload our guests,” Dr. Xavier said.

One of the men opened the back doors and waved his rifle. “Come on, you two. Out.”

Trying to look as beaten and hangdog and harmless as possible, Illya got out, nudging Lt. White to do the same. The stubborn army man almost refused to cooperate, but the 10 rifles pointed at him persuaded him to follow.

Illya counted on natural caution to keep the THRUSH men from getting out in front of them, and so it proved. He kept close to Lt. White, even jostling against him, as they jumped awkwardly to the ground. As he landed, Illya let the grenade drop into his fingers. He pulled the pin, tossed the grenade into the van with a backward flip of the wrist, and shoved Lt. White to the side. Yellow smoke burst from the grenade.

“Hey!” Shouts came from both Lt. White and the THRUSH men as Illya spun and slammed the doors, holding them shut with all his strength.  He felt the impact of a body or two against the doors. Then silence.

Lt. White picked himself up off the gravel driveway and peered cautiously at the van.

“What did you do?”

Illya risked releasing the doors, jumping back to a safer distance. One door swung slowly open, releasing a thin stream of vapor.

“Stay back,” he snapped as the lieutenant inched toward the van. “That stuff is powerful.” He circled the van at a distance of about 10 feet, watching the gas seep out every crack.

Dr. Xavier and Minerva were slumped over in the front. No movement or sound came from the vehicle.

“Are they dead?” Lt. White asked.

“I don’t know. It’s not my grenade. But from what he said—” Illya indicated Dr. Xavier — “They’re no better off than those kids and your associates.”

“And your partner,” Lt. White said, but this time there was a shade less certainty in his contempt.

“I hope not,” Illya said tiredly. “I’m relying on him to get us out of here.”

“What the hell is going on?” Lt. White demanded. “You just—”

Both men turned at the sound of a car racing up the driveway.

“That’s my car!” White exclaimed as the grey sedan neared, slowing.

“That’s my partner, “ Illya said with relief.

 

Napoleon eased the sedan to a stop and got out. “Someone here call for a taxi?”

His partner, or what was left of him, smiled tiredly.

“My men?” Lt. White asked.

Napoleon shook his head. “I’m sorry, lieutenant. They were killed with some sort of gas grenade.” He looked at the van.

“Don’t get too close,” Illya warned. “Fumes are still escaping.”

Napoleon raised questioning brows at his partner.

“Some sort of gas grenade,” Illya said. “Someone left it lying around in the back of the van.”

“Careless.” Napoleon indicated the house. “Is everyone accounted for?”

“I think so.” Illya rubbed his face. “If we had some explosives we could end this right now.”

“What?” Lt. White said.

Napoleon fished in his pocket, pulled out a familiar small grey cube. Then he said, “You know, both Mr. Waverly and the army hoped to get Dr. Xavier’s machine back whole.”

Illya shook his head. Napoleon regarded him a moment.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” He tossed one of the little bombs to his partner, who barely caught it. Not revealing the concern that tweaked in him, Napoleon said, “Lead the way.”

“Wait a minute,” Lt. White started forward. “If the machine is in there  ...  we have to take it back.”

“You and what army?” Illya said. “It’s the size of a car.”

“Well, then  ...  we need to get some people up here who can transport it  ...  dismantle it and—”

“We’re going to dismantle it,” Illya said.

“That device is a powerful weapon,” Lt. White said. “It needs to be in the hands of the government.”

Napoleon chuckled. Illya said, “I know what it can do. I wouldn’t trust it in the hands of my mother.”

“You don’t have—”

Napoleon and Illya went into the house. Lt.White followed, still arguing.

Ten minutes later the three of them left the house, spilled down the front steps and got in the car. Lt. White got behind the wheel. Napoleon loaded his partner into the back, got in beside him, and said, “Home, James.”

The tires spun in the gravel, spitting rocks as Lt. White turned the car around and headed for the highway. Napoleon hauled Illya into a more upright position. Illya turned in his seat to watch the house recede as they drove away. They heard the explosion; Napoleon felt the tension drain from his partner’s battered frame as Illya exhaled a long, silent sigh.

“Your boss is going to have your ass for this, Solo,” White said. “Mine’s going to do the same to me.”

“Tell the general you were outnumbered. He and Uncle Sam can at least take comfort that the thing is destroyed.” He glanced at his partner, slumped against him, out cold.

***

At 7:42 p.m. the intercom in Mr. Waverly’s desk buzzed. He sighed, pushed aside the report on the failed Madagascar mission, and flipped the switch.

“Yes.”

“Scanners report Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have entered Del Floria’s, sir.”

Mr. Waverly felt a surge of energy that, at least temporarily, took 10 years from him. “I see. Thank you. Have them report to me immediately. Oh, and have the men I sent to Vermont report to me directly when they call in.”

“Yes sir.” The intercom went dead. Mr. Waverly got up and paced anxiously for a few moments. He was seated again, as if he’d never moved, when the door opened and his top two agents entered, Kuryakin leaning heavily on Solo.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly said, hoping only he recognized the relief and satisfaction in his voice.

 

The agents exchanged a look — did nothing ever surprise their chief? — and deposited two exhausted bodies into comfortable leather chairs.

“I’m most gratified to see you both — especially you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Thank you sir. It’s good to be home.”

“And Mr. Solo. Apparently I was premature in dismissing your claim to paranormal abilities.”

Napoleon cleared his throat, embarrassed, and Illya gave him a quick incredulous look.

“Well, sir  ... ” Napoleon began awkwardly.

“Never mind that now. I’d like a quick verbal report before you gentlemen go to medical, where at least one of you obviously belongs. Later I’ll expect a full written report, of course.”

“Yes sir,” the agents said.

Napoleon looked at his partner. Illya stared at his hands, resting on the table. Napoleon looked at the bruises on his knuckles, along his fingers and arms. He noticed the Russian’s breathing accelerating, and realized, _he still can’t talk about it_.

Swallowing his own anxiety, Napoleon entered the breach.

“Briefly, sir, Illya was taken by THRUSH men under the command of Dr. Xavier. He survived the blast in Bogota and had reestablished himself with THRUSH backing in Vermont. He wanted to use Illya as a guinea pig for his machine.”

“Did he?” Mr. Waverly asked sharply.

“Yes sir,” Illya blurted with an effort that puzzled their boss but drew a relieved grin from Napoleon. _That’s my stubborn partner; fight it._

“I located Dr. Xavier and  ...  well, sir, the upshot is we destroyed the machine and got away, and that Dr. Xavier is dead. And that Lt. White is on his way to Gen. Cooke, a trifle annoyed with us for blowing up a very diabolical toy the army evidently wanted to play with.”

“Hm,” Mr. Waverly hmmed. “Of course the army isn’t accustomed, as I am, to your penchant for blowing up everything you come across. As always, gentlemen, good work. I’ll expect a full report as soon as possible. If Mr. Kuryakin is not up to it, Mr. Solo, you might bestir yourself to do the honors on his behalf.”

“Yes sir.” Napoleon’s acquiescence drew a surprised look from his superior, who knew how much he hated paperwork.

The two men stood. Napoleon was ready to head for the door but Illya said formally, “Mr. Waverly, I wish to request that I be removed from active duty.” He glanced sidelong at his partner, feeling his stare. “Immediately.”

After a moment, Mr. Waverly said:

“I presume you have a reason for this request apart from the obvious hole in your leg, Mr. Kuryakin, since injuries have never stopped you in the past.”

“The machine, sir. I was  ...  it was used on me.” Napoleon saw Illya’s fingers curl into fists. “Twice. I have no clear recollection of the second time.”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I  ...  there is no certainty my  ...  mind was not affected. Sir.”

Mr. Waverly regarded the tense agent, scowl unchanging.

“Yes. I see. I commend your honesty and dedication. You are on inactive status as of this moment. Turn in your gun and communicator — and for heaven’s sake go to medical and have yourself taken care of. We’ll begin checking you for  ...  programming  ...  when you’re a little more up to it.”

“Yes sir. I  ...  I don’t have my gun or my communicator, sir. They’re at my apartment.”

Mr. Waverly waved them both away with a nonchalance that could only be affected.

“Go on. We’ll worry about the technicalities later. Mr. Solo, keep an eye on your partner, will you? Make sure he doesn’t do anything treacherous.”

“Thank you, sir,” Illya said, slumping. Napoleon took his partner’s arm.

“I can walk, Napoleon,” Illya protested. His leg gave out after two steps. Napoleon pulled his partner’s arm over his shoulders, drawing him upright.

“Come on. When you go on inactive status you go all the way, don’t you?”

The door slid shut behind them.

“What was all that about?” Napoleon asked.

“All what?”

“Asking to be relieved of duty. Do you really think you’re a danger to UNCLE?” Napoleon noticed that everyone they passed in the corridors glanced at them, then continued about their business, most of them shaking their heads. _Do we do this that often?_

“I don’t know. That’s the point. I think I’m all right. And that’s the insidious nature of —” He stopped, sucking in a breath, whether in pain or from the effort of speaking, Napoleon couldn’t tell. “—of Dr. Xavier’s methods.”

“You’re already better,” Napoleon said. “You couldn’t even say this much before.”

“I’m fighting it. But the fact that I have to tells me the process has affected me.”

“I can’t remember the last time you willingly talked to a shrink.” They stopped at the elevators and Napoleon hit the button for the med/psych floor.

Illya stood straight until they were in the elevator and the doors closed. Then he slumped against his partner, his voice weaker.

“I’ve never done it willingly. I’m not willing this time. But I need to know.”

Napoleon didn’t bother asking what Illya would do if the psych team found some evidence of programming. _We’ll cross that flaming, buckling bridge when we come to it._

***

Napoleon paced outside while his partner endured a thorough going-over by the medical staff. When he saw Dr. Baker and the nurse leave, he started to go in, then stopped when Mr. Waverly and Dr. Pirelli, head of the Psych section, walked in.

Strangely, Mr. Waverly looked at him as if surprised to see him there.

“Mr. Solo. You might as well come along.”

Illya sat on the bed, cleaned up and scowling, his injured leg stretched out. The scowl lifted when Napoleon walked in, fell again when Mr. Waverly and Pirelli followed him.

Mr. Waverly said, “Per your information, Mr. Kuryakin, I’ve arranged for Dr. Pirelli and his staff to give you a thorough post-mission psychological examination with an eye toward determining what  ...  danger, if any, you may now pose this organization due to Dr. Xavier’s process.”

Napoleon shot his partner a sidelong glance; Illya simply met Mr. Waverly’s gaze in silence.

“It’ll take a few days,” Dr. Pirelli said apologetically. “It’s pretty thorough and pretty unpleasant, but I have confidence that if your experience left you with any post-hypnotic suggestions, we’ll find out about them.”

Illya nodded. “And will you be able to remove them?”

Dr. Pirelli shrugged. “That can be trickier. We’ll do our damnedest, but as you know, the mind is in many ways still a mystery to medical science.”

Illya nodded again; Napoleon saw the faint hope in his eyes flicker.

“And what then?” Napoleon asked.

“Depending on the extent of the  ...  damage,” Mr. Waverly said, “Mr. Kuryakin faces three possible alternatives: reassignment, retirement or  ... ”

Illya didn’t shift; Napoleon, however, stiffened. “Or?”

Expressionless, Mr. Waverly continued. “Depending on the level of threat to the security of this organization, simply removing Mr. Kuryakin from our service may not be sufficient. He may have to be terminated.”

Napoleon’s head snapped up. “What?”

“We won’t know ‘til we’ve done a thorough examination,” Dr. Pirelli put in.

“I can’t believe what I just heard,” Napoleon said.

“Napoleon,” Illya chided mildly.

“It was my impression you were familiar with our procedures, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said coldly. “Mr. Kuryakin knows a great deal about this organization. He would be a powerful weapon against us.”

“So you’re prepared to _terminate_ him,” Napoleon said, savaging the verb, “just like that? Payment for services rendered to UNCLE?”

“Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said, a warning.

Illya glanced at his partner and shook his head, but Napoleon ignored him.

“For something that was done _to_ him?” Napoleon pressed. “Did I miss something? Was UNCLE bought out by THRUSH when I wasn’t looking?”

“ _Napoleon_  ... ”

Illya’s pained half-whisper stopped Napoleon; he subsided, biting down on the outrage. Shouts unshouted burned in his throat.

“None of this is decided, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said, his tone stiff, emotionless. “And when it is, you will be expected to follow orders. Why don’t we wait until we have the psych team’s report before we debate Mr. Kuryakin’s future?”

Napoleon shook his head, fighting back argument and denials. His boss was right; they were pointless at this time.

Dr. Pirelli, evidently eager to get away from the tension in the room, said:

“We’ll begin in the morning, Mr. Kuryakin.”

He and Mr. Waverly departed. Napoleon paced the room. Stark and white, naked and unsympathetic, it felt painfully symbolic.

“Napoleon,” Illya said, as if they’d been arguing this for hours. “It might be necessary.”

“No.”

“Napoleon  ... ”

“An execution?” Napoleon confronted his partner, face taut with anger though his tone remained neutral, even cool. “For something you haven’t even done yet? But then, that would make it an assassination, not an execution.”

“You don’t—”

“Cyanide?” Napoleon continued, his voice low, acid. “Or maybe just a bullet. And who are they going to get to pull the trigger? The chief enforcement agent?”

“ _Stop_!”

The almost unheard-of shout startled Napoleon into silence.

Illya glared at him. “Did it ever occur to you that _that_ might be preferable to my endangering this organization, or any of its people?” Angry, he blurted out his chief fear: “ _You_?”

Napoleon shook his head. Reading the complete denial — the complete trust — in his stubborn expression troubled the Russian as fully as it warmed him. If he _was_ a danger to UNCLE, or to any of its operatives, that danger would be greatest for Napoleon if he could not even acknowledge its possibility.

Quietly, the Russian said, “I would prefer it.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Napoleon insisted.

“What if it does?” Illya said. “You must be prepared for the possibility.”

Napoleon shook his head.”The possibility of having to have you killed? I don’t think so. I don’t care what Dr. Xavier did.”

Illya stretched his aching leg out on the hospital bed. “You aren’t making this any easier.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” Napoleon snapped. “Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger myself?”

Illya regarded his partner steadily. “What if that’s the order Mr. Waverly gives? What if it’s necessary?”

Napoleon said, “If Mr. Waverly orders that, I quit as of that second. And you can be damned sure I won’t let anyone else do it either.”

“You might have to.”

“No.” Napoleon’s voice was calmer now, cold with certainty. “I will not allow that to happen. I don’t care who orders what.”

Illya said, pained, “You can’t do that. Your career, everything you believe in—”

“No.” Napoleon took a step closer, eyes burning. “First and foremost, I believe in you. You and me. That’s the most significant reality in my life. Everything I believe in, everything I fight for when I fight, everything I value and trust and love — _everything_ — is betrayed if I turn my back on you.”

Illya, mouth opened to argue, stopped, sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m tired, Napoleon. I want this over. I can’t stand  ...  not being able to  ...  trust myself.”

The anger drained from Napoleon. He seized his partner’s shoulders, shook him lightly. “I know. Trust _me_ on this. It’ll be over, soon, and it’ll work out.”

Illya glanced up.

“Trust me,” Napoleon repeated. “I’m with you all the way.”

Illya shook his head. “I know. That’s what worries me most.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you _don’t_ trust me,” Napoleon said, knowing it wasn’t true.

“I just don’t like the idea that UNCLE may lose both its best operatives in one stroke.” Illya met his partner’s gaze. “That’s what will happen, isn’t it?”

Napoleon nodded. “If it comes to that, yes. I didn’t pull you out of Dr. Xavier’s fun house just to give up on you now.”

“Pull me out? I was halfway out the door by the time you got there.”

“You were halfway to unconsciousness, tovarish, and don’t you forget it.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I wasn’t at my best.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I prefer you unconscious; you’re slightly less argumentative.” Illya opened his mouth, but Napoleon held up a hand. “Don’t say it.”

“If our positions were reversed, _you’d_ say it,” Illya argued.

“Yes, but you’d tell me not to. And you’d tell me to not worry about it until it’s a certainty. So I’m telling _you_ that.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we even bother having conversations,” Illya muttered. Napoleon, taking this as an admission of defeat, smiled.

Illya carefully crossed his legs on the bed. “Hospitals,” he snarled, then added something in Russian that Napoleon guessed was not a benediction. “Hospital food.”

“Want me to go get you something?”

Illya considered briefly. “Something from Luigi’s?”

“Pasta, marinara sauce, crusty bread, a fresh salad ... ” Napoleon ticked off the items on his fingers, pausing as Illya gave him a sly under-the-brows glance.

“Who’s buying?”

Relieved his partner could find in himself even so small a joke, Napoleon pretended exasperation.

“I suppose I might as well, just this once, since I get to go home after and sleep in my own bed.”  He got up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Very funny. Don’t forget, plenty of garlic.”

“Expecting vampires?”

“In a way.”

Illya watched his partner go. In the space of a slowly indrawn breath, cold silence echoed in the tiny bare room, and fear like poison began to seep into his skin.

***

Napoleon walked into Medical and paused; he knew a moment’s silence would direct him as accurately as a homing beacon.

Sure enough — Napoleon turned right and headed along the short corridor, following the sounds of heated discussion and ready to duck any bedpans, syringes or medical personnel that might come flying out of the room. The only thing that flew past was an orderly, carring a brush and a dustpan littered with glittering glass fragments.

“—need the rest,” came a voice, patience overlying annoyance and puzzlement.

“I’m capable of sleeping on my own, when I’m ready.” Illya’s voice, in all-too-familiar low, grit-teethed obstinacy. Napoleon saw the doctor’s whitecoated back as he entered the room.

“Look,” the doctor persisted — Napoleon had never seen him before, and pitied him if he was new — “you obviously don’t realize—”

“I’ve agreed to stay here so you people can poke and prod me to your ghoulish hearts’ delight,” Illya said coldly — Napoleon saw the doctor’s shoulders tense — “although I can assure you I’ve had enough of that of late —”

Napoleon set the bags of Italian food on a table by the door and stepped into view, startling the doctor, a fresh-faced young M.D. whose current expression showed his inexperience in dealing with patients of Illya’s caliber of stubbornness.

“Who are you?” the doctor asked; Napoleon forgave his brusque tone, knowing how on-edge Illya could make people when he chose to be difficult.

“His keeper,” he said, nodding toward Illya, who sat sullenly in the crisply tidy hospital bed, arms crossed. “As you can see, he needs one.” Then he saw that the doctor was cradling one red-wristed hand in the other. “What happened?”

The doctor flushed.

“I’ve already apologized for that,” Illya said. Napoleon put the pieces together.

“Ah — you tried to inject him while he was sleeping?”

“How was I supposed to know?” the doctor demanded. “I was following orders. I’ve only been with UNCLE a week.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t break it,” Napoleon said sympathetically.

“He needs to be sedated,” the doctor said.

“I agree,” Napoleon said, feeling Illya’s glare. The doctor ignored the interruption.

“His vitals are irregular, including his electroencephalograms. If — “

“He, ah, doesn’t like needles,” Napoleon said calmly, hoping his tone would help the doctor get hold of himself.

“Look, I don’t like them either. That’s beside the point.” The doctor’s tone was acid, but calmer. He looked down at his wrist, massaging it. “I’m going to have a nurse prepare another sedative.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Illya said. Napoleon laid a hand on the doctor’s arm, turning him toward the door.

“I apologize for my friend. He was raised by wombats. He’s suspicious of everything. Doesn’t even open his refrigerator door without a gun in his hand.”

The doctor eyed him dubiously.

“Napoleon — what are you telling him?” Illya demanded as Napoleon walked the doctor out.

“See? He’s paranoid and delusional,” Napoleon said, loudly. “He thinks he’s Czar Nicholas and I’m Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Illya said something in Russian. Napoleon paused, turned. “Watch your language, Nicky.”

Illya snarled as Napoleon urged the doctor out into the corridor and down the hall.

Still puzzled, but calm, the doctor repeated, “He needs to be sedated. He’s highly agitated and won’t rest.”

“Why don’t you let me talk to him for a while?” Napoleon said. “Maybe I can calm him down.”

“Exactly who are you?” the doctor asked again.

“Oh — I’m his partner. I’m also, although I hesitate to exercise the privilege, his immediate superior.”

“Oh, you’re Napoleon Solo.” The puzzlement on the doctor’s face cleared.

“Rumors fly,” Napoleon muttered.

“You and Mr. Kuryakin are rather legendary among the medical staff,” the doctor said.

“Ouch.” Napoleon winced. “I could’ve gone my whole life without hearing those words.”

The doctor glanced over Napoleon’s shoulder toward Illya’s room. “Well, we won’t force him, although we could—”

“I doubt it,” Napoleon said, grinning.

“I meant we have the authority,” the doctor said. “If not the will. The psych team will be all over him tomorrow. He’ll wish he’d had a good night’s sleep then.”

Napoleon patted the doctor on the arm, a dismissal. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The doctor’s expression showed his doubts, but he shrugged and went on about his rounds. Napoleon returned to Illya’s room, which had filled with the luscious scent of garlic and tomatoes.

Illya had lain back against the stack of pillows on the upright bed; his arms remained crossed, his expression surly as he stared at the wall.

“You know, they’re not going to let you go out and play if you don’t take your medicine like a good boy.”

Illya transferred the scowl from wall to partner; Napoleon held up his hands.

“I’m just the messenger.” He plunked down unceremoniously on the foot of the bed; Illya drew up his knees, resting his still-crossed arms atop them.

“You really shouldn’t take your frustrations out on the medical staff.”

“If they would simply leave me alone—”

“Then they’d hardly be doing their jobs, would they?” Napoleon said.

“Will you stop being so damned reasonable?” Illya groused.

“How else will you be able to justify venting your anger on me?”

“Mr. Waverly assigned you to be my punching bag?” Illya muttered.

“Actually, I volunteered.” That drew a glance and a grudging half-smile that faded immediately.

“Will you stop?” Napoleon said. “You were given a direct order to kill me and you didn’t even wing me. Doesn’t that tell you the process didn’t work?”

Illya shook his head. “It may be more subtle than that. Besides, you don’t know how hard ... ” He paused, shaking his head as if to shake free his doubts. “I just want to know for certain. I can’t be sure, and you’re—”

“I’m sure—”

“—not objective,” Illya concluded. “I need a noninterested opinion.”

“What you _need_ is —” Napoleon checked himself, getting up. “What you need is food.” He collected the bags of food, dragged the wheeled table to the bedside, and began distributing a dinner that deserved a far better setting than the tiny hospital room.

As they ate, Napoleon thought that a dinner from Luigi’s also was usually shared with a considerably more female companion; however, he had no complaints. It restored his world to have his partner back.

 

“Now,” Napoleon said as he cleared away the rubble; starved, they hadn’t stood on ceremony in wolfing down the dinner. “You need to sleep. Don’t make them shoot you up with something.”

Illya glanced around the room. “Will you—”

Napoleon hesitated, turned from the wastebasket. “What?”

Face set, Illya shook his head, slid down onto the bed. “Nothing. Go home. Get some rest.” His tone, now hard, controlled, failed to erase the faint, lonesome supplication Napoleon had heard a moment before.

Lightly, he said, “I’ll stick around ‘til you drop off.” He sat down again. “Go to sleep, you testy Russian.”

Illya looked at Napoleon, who could see the words forming behind his partner’s expressive eyes.

“Don’t thank me,” he growled. “You’ll be getting my bill in the morning.”

But Illya was done with joking, at least for the moment. “No amount would be enough,” he said soberly.

Napoleon swallowed. “That’s right. Because what we’ve got is priceless. You know it and I know it. It’s far too late for thanks between us. So go to sleep. Don’t make me sing you a lullaby.”

Illya put his hands up. “Pax.” He slid all the way down under the thin blankets and rather dramatically composed himself for sleep, taking in and releasing a deep breath and crossing his hands over his chest.

“Oh, knock it off,” Napoleon said. “If I don’t hear snoring in 5 minutes I’m letting them sedate you.”

Illya opened one eye. “I don’t snore.” The eye closed.

“Yes you do. Sleep.” Napoleon settled himself in the chair.

Knowing his partner would feel his gaze if he looked at him, Napoleon instead focused on the wall clock over the door, trying to decide whether he could hear it ticking in the blank silence or whether that was just his imagination.

He disliked hospitals himself — all agents did; hypochondriacs made lousy spies — but had sometimes wondered at Illya’s nearly violent objections to them. He’d never asked for the reasons — had never really devoted any thought to them. He’d simply accepted the phobia as he accepted everything else about his partner. Who didn’t have a few quirks? And, especially, what agent didn’t have things in his past to make him touchy about certain situations that might seem innocuous to others?

And what agent didn’t simply accept his partner’s oddities? Maybe Illya had more than most, but not a day went by in which Napoleon wasn’t grateful he’d got saddled with this surly damn’ Russian who’d come to mean more to him than  ...  anything.

 

Illya awoke with a start, heart pounding. His gaze raked the room. Napoleon was gone. Panic and anger flood through him; he struggled to rise but his body, impossibly heavy and sluggish, wouldn’t respond. He shouted his partner’s name but heard nothing. He wrenched himself upright and Napoleon walked into the room, smiling, jaunty. Illya’s hand slid out from under blankets that weighed a thousand pounds. He raised the rifle and fired  ...

 ...  his heart slammed him awake and he jerked upright, gasping. The room lamp had been turned off; light from the hallway outlined the shape of his partner leaning over him.

“It’s all right,” Napoleon said. “You’re safe.”

Illya twisted sideways, flicking the light switch up and staring at Napoleon.

Napoleon shook his partner lightly, let him go. “I’m safe too.”

“How did you ..?”

Napoleon reclaimed his chair, looking stiff. “You called out in your sleep.”

Exhausted, Illya lay back down, draping one arm over his eyes. All his bones and muscles seemed to have been removed while he’d slept. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Three thirty.”

“Napoleon, go home.”

Silence. He dragged his arm off his face. His partner had settled back in the chair and put his feet up on the hospital bed.

“Napoleon ... ” Illya tried to sound threatening but it was a hopeless cause.

“No,” Napoleon said. Then he smiled. “Make me.”

Illya reached up with a shaky arm and turned off the light. His eyelids slid down over dry eyes. Four more hours until they started on him; the annoying physical examination he’d undergone last night would be nothing compared to the psych workup. And this time he didn’t even have the minimal comfort of confidence that he was mentally sound—as mentally sound as an agent ever was, anyway. If there was the slightest doubt, they’d remove him, one way or the other. And he wouldn’t blame them. And  ...  then what?

In the quiet darkness he was acutely aware of Napoleon’s presence; his partner was his anchor in this current wide sea of doubt. Illya focused on that, forcibly pushing back the fear.

Napoleon let out a breath he hardly knew he’d been holding when Illya’s breathing finally became deeper and more regular. _Relax_ , he told himself, but he knew what was at stake as well as Illya did.

“Napoleon?”

The semi-awake whisper from someone he’d thought asleep startled him.

“I’m here.”

“Don’t.”

He sat up, leaned closer. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t. Leave.”

Napoleon smiled slightly, pressed his partner’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. Sleep.”

***

“Tell me about your partner.”

Though he’d thought himself prepared for these sudden changes of topic, Illya blinked in surprise. “What?”

“Tell me about your partner.”

“Talk to him.”

Dr. Pirelli smiled. “I want your impressions.”

“Those are my business.”

“You seem perturbed.”

“I am perturbed,” Illya said. “This whole business perturbs me, and your irrelevant and time-wasting detours perturb me as well.”

Pirelli glanced at his clipboard and scribbled something, stage-whispering: “Easily perturbed.” He glanced under his brows at Illya, and Illya permitted himself a soft snort of laughter. By the end of day one they’d reached a kind of balance of amicable friction.

 Straightening up, Dr. Pirelli added, “I think you’ll have to allow us to decide what lines of questioning are relevant here, Mr. Kuryakin.” 

Illya smiled sourly. “I agree.”

Dr. Pirelli scowled. “To?”

“That I have to allow you to decide.”

“You don’t like letting others make decisions that involve you,” Dr. Pirelli said.

“Do you?” Illya challenged, expecting some smooth psychiatric distraction. Dr. Pirelli seemed genuinely to consider the question.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t. Most people prefer to be, or to feel that they are, in charge of their own fates.”

“As much as is possible,” Illya said.

“Do you feel that you are not in control of your own fate?”

“A runaway taxicab might change any plans I have made, at any moment its path and mine intersect,” Illya said. “No, I don’t feel in complete control of my fate.”

Dr. Pirelli nodded. “That seems reasonable. All the same, some people like to have others make decisions for them.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Pirelli looked up. “Yes? You like that?”

“Yes, some people do,” Illya said heavily. “I don’t.”

“Master of your fate, captain of your ship?” Dr. Pirelli said.

Illya shrugged.

“You have, indeed, chosen to be here, to submit to questioning by us rather than be dismissed.”

“I wasn’t aware that that was the inevitable result of refusal,” Illya said. “Mr. Waverly mentioned the other kind of termination.”

“Do you fear that?”

Illya considered. “No.”

“You don’t fear death?”

Illya, anticipating some sort of trap, considered further. He was willing to be honest, as long as the questions weren’t too intrusive. “No.”  He expected the shrink to ask what he did fear.

“Our records indicate you do not socialize much with other UNCLE employees.”

Illya said nothing.

“In fact, other than very rare social activities with the occasional unattached female employee, you socialize only with your partner.”

Concern tickled Illya’s gut, but he waited.

Dr. Pirelli looked up at him again. “Well?”

“I wasn’t aware statements required response,” Illya said. “If there was an implicit question, you’ll have to make it explicit.”

“Have you any  ...  extracurricular friendships?”

“Friendships? No.”

“Acquaintanceships, then?”

“Yes, many.”

“By your tone I surmise these are not of great significance to you,” Dr. Pirelli said.

Illya considered, refrained from answering.

“Would you say Mr. Solo is your only friend?” Dr. Pirelli said then, and Illya smiled faintly; in view of his evasiveness, he’d been fairly sure the original topic would resurface.

“Yes,” he said without reservation.

“Wouldn’t you say that’s unusual?”

“Not for me,” he said.

Dr. Pirelli smiled. “Will you accept the hypothesis that you are an unusual case?”

Illya fought an answering smile. “Yes.”

***

Napoleon stopped in the corridor, heaing his partner’s voice, instantly recognized through raised in unheard-of anger.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not concerned about me?”

The door slammed open and Illya stepped into the corridor, head jerking up to see Napoleon.

Napoleon took in, like a bullet, his partner’s pale face, the angry flush over his cheekbones, and the anguish in his eyes. Illya met his gaze, one honest moment, then turned and stalked away down the hall.

Dr. Pirelli came out. “Mr. Kuryakin—”

Illya waved a hand, shouted a short phrase in Russian and kept walking.

Dr. Pirelli noticed Napoleon. He sighed, said, “Do I want to know where he just told me to stick it?”

Napoleon smiled bleakly. “No.”

Dr. Pirelli echoed the smile. “Well, since you’re here, Mr. Solo, shall we give you the opportunity to tell me where to stick it?” He gestured for Napoleon to precede him into the office.

***

“You do understand that we also interviewed Mr. Solo, about you?” Dr. Pirelli said on the third day.

Illya, surprised, said, “No.”

“Oh yes.” Dr. Pirelli waited. “Are you not interested in what he said?”

“I presume you would not be permitted to tell me,” Illya said. “Nor do I feel a particular need for details. I can imagine the general outline of the conversation.” Indeed he could clearly visualize Napoleon, aflame with righteous anger, defending him more strenuously than he could ever defend himself.

“You are not concerned about what he might have said?”

Illya said nothing;  he was taken up at the moment with the realization that he had no fears whatsoever about anything Napoleon might have said about him or their partnership. It was an immeasurable treasure, that faith. He knew he would willingly die rather than lose it, die a hundred times before doing anything to damage it.

“What he said to you is his business,” he said finally, massaging his temples.

“Even if it was about you?” Dr. Pirelli asked. “He knows more about you than anyone else, doesn’t he? You have no concerns as to what he might have told us?”

“I trust Napoleon,” Illya said simply; those three words held more of his world than he would have liked to admit to anyone, even himself.

“Yes, with your life. That’s part of your job. But  ...  with your secrets? With your fears? Your demons?”

Illya closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. “You are barking up the wrong tree, doctor. Wouldn’t you rather ask me about my childhood or something? My dreams? Nightmares, sexual fantasies?”

He would have sworn he _heard_ Dr. Pirelli smile.

“Tell me about your childhood, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya opened his eyes, not answering Dr. Pirelli’s grin. “No.”

***

Napoleon knocked, prepared for anything, including being told, in any one of a dozen languages, to fuck off.

Illya opened the door and looked him up and down, the pinched scowl on his face never lifting.

“What do you want?”

Napoleon simply walked in, took the door out of his partner’s grip, shut it, locked it, and pulled Illya into a hug.

“I’m here,” he said, feeling the granite tension in his partner’s body. “I’m right here. Whatever happens.”

The tension crumbled, and Illya leaned against him, unable to speak. Napoleon hugged him tightly for a moment, then drew away to meet his partner’s eyes.

“I mean it,” he said. “Whatever happens.”

Illya shook his head and led the way into the living room.

“Psychiatrists,” he began, “psychiatrists and all their pointless ... ” He snarled a curse. Napoleon had nothing to say, no comfort to offer save his presence and a sympathetic ear. Quitting wasn’t an option, so the only way out was through.

“What does my childhood have to do with the effects of Dr. Xavier’s machine?” Illya groused. “What do _you_ have to do with it?”

Napoleon considered. Between logical argument and silence, just now the latter seemed the wisest option. Illya rarely ranted, and when he did it never lasted long. The whole point of any psychiatric exam was to pinpoint weaknesses — and an agent was the last sort of man or woman in the world to permit that to happen without a fight.

Of course Illya knew all that. Agents learned a lot about psychology, in self-defense.

“If I have to answer one more question about going hungry in Kiev or about Nazis or about whether or not I trust you—” His hands clenched in front of him.

Napoleon waited. When they unclenched, he said, “Do you mean ‘answer,’ or ‘evade’?”

Illya snarled, “You know psychiatrists. An evasion _is_ an answer.” Then he realized Napoleon was kidding. He met his partner’s gaze, equal parts empathy and amusement, and sighed.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. But you—”

“What?”

Illya shook his head. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“You could do worse,” Napoleon said airily.

Illya dropped onto his couch. “Maybe Dr. Pirelli is right.”

“About?” Napoleon thought of his own session with the good doctor.

“That it’s abnormal. Abnormal to only trust one person. To trust one person so completely.”

Though moved, Napoleon instinctively knew better than to make a big deal out of what Illya was — at least at this moment — viewing as a flaw. Or a problem, anyway.

He sat on the back of the couch. “If that’s abnormal, we’ve both got it.”

“Dr. Pirelli said you told him a great deal.”

Napoleon smiled a grit-toothed smile. “Let’s just say I had a great deal to say.”

Illya said soberly, “Then I imagine you did tell him a great deal.”

Napoleon considered. “You’re probably right. But I’m not sorry about anything I said. Although I might eventually regret the decibel level at which I said it.”

“Exactly what did you say?” Illya asked as if afraid Napoleon had gotten him into worse trouble.

Napoleon’s tone took on an edge of anger. “Exactly what you would expect me to say to any witless meddling whitecoat who suggested our partnership was a bad thing. Or that our friendship was a liability to either us or the organization.”

“I shudder to imagine your language.”

“I was fairly graphic,” Napoleon admitted.

Illya shook his head. “How do they know? How do they know exactly which buttons to push?”

“They’re trained for it. Look, a certain amount — a large amount — of resistance is normal. They expect it. But don’t kid yourself that your fears are a secret. We all have them — all agents have them. Partners have them.” He took hold of Illya’s shoulder, gave him a gentle shake. “Even I have them.” Illya shot him a sardonic sidelong glance. “Don’t worry about it. Let it out.”

“It sounds as if you’re telling me to cooperate with the thought-vampires.”

Napoleon smiled wryly. “Anything that gets you back at my side where you belong.”

Illya leaned back into the couch cushions, arms crossed as he scowled blankly across the room at his intricate homemade stereo system.

“I’m afraid of not being useful any longer. Of not being able to make a difference.”

“Those aren’t fears, you crazy Russian. They’re virtues.”

Illya shrugged. “I don’t care if they know about those fears. I don’t want them to know I’m afraid of—” the words choked off.

Gently Napoleon said, “Of losing me?”

Illya looked up at him, and for a moment that fear was plain on his face. He looked away, nodding, one short, angry jerk of his head.

Napoleon said, very quietly, “I have that fear too.” He shook his head. “I don’t even like to say it. I feel like I’m tempting fate, or ... ”

“Handing over a hostage,” Illya finished, not in question. Napoleon pressed his shoulder for a long moment as both of them stared, not at each other, but at their own demons.

“The only cure for it would be to quit UNCLE and go into  ...  banking,” Napoleon said finally.

“We would both have to quit.”

Napoleon nodded, looked down as his partner looked up. “I will if you will.”

Illya, hearing the shift in tone, smiled fractionally.

“ _I_ will if _you_ will,” he countered.

Napoleon grinned. “So I guess we’re stuck. Stuck making a difference in the world. Or trying to.”

Illya rubbed his eyes. Napoleon thought he’d been lucky to get off with just one grueling, soul-scraping session. Illya’d been in with the shrinks for days.

“Dr. Pirelli  ... ” Illya sought for the word, “ ...  suggested that an agent shouldn’t be too attached to his partner. That UNCLE and the mission should come first, always.” He glanced toward, but not at, Napoleon. “I didn’t know what to tell him. By that criterion I’m an abject failure as an agent.”

Napoleon cursed, startling Illya. “Let’s see Dr. Pirelli in the field risking his life, with no one except his partner between him and a painful, gruesome demise. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You and I are the best team UNCLE has. Probably the best they’ve ever had. Whatever Dr. Pirelli says, Mr. Waverly isn’t fool enough to quibble about our methods.”

“As long as we’re successful.”

“We’ve had our failures. We’ll have them again, until we hit that final one.”

Illya gave his partner a pained glare. Napoleon shrugged. “If we aren’t going to quit and go into banking, we have to accept that what we do could get us killed.”

Illya nodded.

“I don’t mean to sound morbid,” Napoleon went on, “But when I go  ...  if I go with you at my side, I’ll have no regrets.”

Illya shook his head, fighting a smile. “You are a hopeless romantic, Napoleon. And if you think for one second that I’m going _with_ you, just because I happen to be at your side when you ‘go,’ as you so delicately put it, you are a severely delusional hopeless romantic  ... ”

Napoleon faked offense. “You could teach a rat a thing or two about deserting a sinking ship, couldn’t you?” Illya proferred no more than an arch look. “Order some pizza, you faithless Russian, before I go find myself a new best friend.”

***

Dr. Pirelli squared the stack of papers on the table before him.

“We detected no post-hypnotic suggestions; but he’s weak and confused. He’s also surly, impatient and uncooperative, but from his files I assumed that to be normal. At this point —”

“Is he dangerous to this organization?” Mr. Waverly barked.

Dr. Pirelli pursed his lips; Napoleon resisted the urge to kick him.

“I would say only indirectly. He’s troubled about his own usefulness, concerned that he might be a danger to UNCLE. He needs reassurance that that isn’t the case. He needs some healing time, perhaps counseling.”

“He won’t,” Napoleon said _sotto voce_.

“You recommend not sending him into the field?” Mr. Waverly asked.

“He’s a risk at this time.”

“Every agent is a risk every time he or she goes out,” Napoleon argued despite the tiny voice of good sense in his head telling him it was pointless. “Any one of us _might_ break at any unpredictable moment.”

Mr. Waverly and Dr. Pirelli gave him identical level stares.

“We are aware of that, Mr. Solo,” his superior said. “Have you anything else to add that isn’t in the report, doctor?”

Dr. Pirelli glanced at Napoleon. “Only that in my _professional_ opinion ... ” He paused, closing his folders and stacking them.

Napoleon tensed. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have yelled at the shrinks; his defense of Illya was bound to make them think he was too emotionally involved. But, damn it, they’d infuriated him with their accusations and innuendo.

“ ... you have one hell of a good pair of agents here.”

Mr. Waverly harrumphed; Napoleon gifted the doctor with a surprised smile.

“Thank you, doctor,” Mr. Waverly said. “That will be all.”

***

At about 7 p.m., Napoleon knocked on the door of Illya’s apartment, composing his expression. He wanted to present a calm front to his partner, who’d been poked and prodded by UNCLE’s psych team for three days. Napoleon hadn’t even seen him in 24 hours. Knowing Illya — and if he didn’t, no one did — he was as grouchy and short-tempered as a bear awakened from hibernation.

He heard the clank and rattle of various locks being released, and the door opened. Napoleon smiled at his partner, who met his gaze expressionlessly.

“Hi there.” Napoleon heard the soft sounds of modern classical. Illya pushed the door back and limped, barefoot, back into his living room. Napoleon followed, knowing he’d been right. Illya’s mood was as black as the jeans and t-shirt he wore.

The couch in the compact living room had been pushed to one side, away from the open window, near which a punching bag had been suspended from the ceiling. Napoleon stopped, looked it up and down, then glanced at Illya, who sat on the back of his couch, sour-faced.

“Did the shrinks advise you to vent your aggressions?” Napoleon asked.

“They’re the ones causing them,” Illya said. His body, his face, the mind behind it, were taut with anger and frustration.

“It was your idea,” Napoleon said gently — then ducked behind the punching bag at the glare Illya shot him.

“Three days,” the Russian groused. “If I’d known I was going to be sitting in a dark stuffy room with thought vampires for three days  ...  I’d have just stayed a traitor.” He crossed his arms, glaring into space.

“It might pay better,” Napoleon teased, coming out from behind the bag.

“What are you doing here?”

Napoleon smiled. “I came to cheer you up.”

“You and what army?”

 A knock sounded at the door.

“Ah,” Napoleon said, “my army.”

Illya got up and went to the door. Napoleon followed.

Illya opened the door to an immediate and enthusiastic double embrace, blond and raven-haired. Napoleon was delighted to see that, caught off-guard, Illya returned the hugs with an uncharacteristic lack of reserve.

“Hey,” he protested, “you two ladies didn’t greet _me_ like that.”

Illya drew back in astonishment. “Alice. Lily.” The girls beamed at him. “I thought you were  ... ”

Napoleon came forward, clearing his throat. “Ahem. Thanks to me, they are, as you just learned, very much not  ...  Come in, ladies. Don’t let this ill-mannered Russian keep you standing out in the hall.” He ushered all three of them inside and closed the door. The girls followed Illya into the living room where he began pulling the sofa into a more guest-friendly position.

“I read your report today,” Napoleon said, lending a hand with the sofa. Once it was in place he sat on the arm. “It was the first time I realized you thought they’d died at the commune. Once I knew, of course ... ”

“We would be dead if not for Napoleon,” Lily said. “He sent me back to tell everyone to hide in the woods.”

“So only those two poor army men died,” Alice said. She reached out impulsively to take Illya’s hand. “I’m so sorry about everything. Can you ever forgive me?”

Napoleon saw the sour expression on his partner’s face and said, “Don’t fall for that scowl. It’s a fake. I’ve seen it a thousand times.”

“Napoleon,” Illya said as the girls laughed, “you’ve destroyed my bargaining power.”

“You get more flies — and beautiful girls — with honey than with vinegar,” Napoleon said sagely. “And speaking of food, what do you say to putting on some slightly less disreputable clothing so we can take these lovely ladies to dinner? We’ll forego dancing in deference to your bum leg.”

Illya looked down at himself, touched the t-shirt, and actually conjured up a slight smile from somewhere.

“If you ladies will excuse me,” he conceded, sketching the faintest of bows and going into the bedroom. Alice and Lily commenced looking interestedly at Illya’s collection of books and music.

“Pardon me,” Napoleon said. “He can never pick the right tie.” He headed for the bedroom.

Illya had in fact already pulled out a rather nice midnight blue silk suit and laid it on the bed.

“I have the perfect accessories for that,” Napoleon said. He pulled out a silver communicator and Illya’s UNCLE special, laying them unceremoniously in his partner’s hands.

“It’s back to the salt mines for you tomorrow, partner,” he said, grinning as the scowl lifted from the Russian’s face like a cloud from the sun.

“The psych team reports you are no crazier than usual, so Mr. Waverly called me and asked me to prevent you killing anyone with your black mood.”

Illya set the gun and pen down and went to the closet to get his holster. “Speaking of killing moods, how are things with the army?” He’d learned nothing of the affair’s wrapup — inactive status meant, among other things, that he had no access to sensitive data.

“With much anger and muttering they accepted the explanations of our superior that you had been a victim rather than a cohort, and that you had in fact, in destroying Dr. Xavier and his infernal machine, once again saved the world for democracy and the American way despite being a godless communist.”

Shaking his head, Illya pulled out a surprisingly crisp white dress shirt and a red tie.

Napoleon, clucking his tongue, plucked the tie from his partner’s hands and returned it to the closet.

“Although how you can manage to save the world and still not be able to dress yourself ... ” Napoleon chose a tie that matched the suit and flung it at his partner.

“But I didn’t. You did. That is, I couldn’t even have done what I did if you hadn’t  ... ” He trailed off, scowling.

Napoleon shrugged. “They weren’t suspicious of me.”

“You falsified the report?”

“Well, not the real one, of course. But Mr. Waverly and I did edit the file we gave to the army. Very slightly.” He made a show of checking his watch, moved to the door. “Come on. Get dressed. We have reservations at Sirino’s at 8.”

“Napoleon ... ”

He looked over his shoulder. Illya stood, gazing at the tie in his hand. He seemed reluctant to meet his partner’s gaze.

“What is it?”

Illya looked up, and Napoleon suddenly knew.

“Don’t say it,” he warned, grinning. “You start thanking me and I’m going to think you can’t read my mind anymore.”

“Mr. Waverly told me that you threatened to quit UNCLE.”

Napoleon turned, surprised. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean not exactly?”

“He wanted to send me to Madagascar.”

“So do I, on a regular basis,” Illya muttered. “So you threatened to quit?”

“No. I quit.” He had the pleasure of seeing surprise spark those sky-blue eyes. “And he  ...  reconsidered.”

Illya shook his head in wonder. “Only you, Napoleon. But how did you find me?”

“Ah ... ” Napoleon grimaced. “I’ll explain _that_ another time.  Probably when I’m drunk. For now, let it suffice that ... I found you because I had to.”

 

The End

 


End file.
